Blood
by FlowerFairyPrincess1110
Summary: "They are staring at me. Some of them are friendly, and others appear envious. But I know, in the end, all will be out for my blood." When Scarlette Everdeen takes her sister Prim's place in the 74th Annual Hunger Games, she never expects to find love with Peeta Mellark. But in the Games with danger at every turn, can they hold onto their romance... or will it be their doom?
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Fifteen-year-old Scarlette Everdeen volunteers for her younger sister Primrose in the 74th Annual Hunger Games. With her is the handsome baker's son, Peeta Mellark. Over the course of their journey into the limelight of the Capitol, they fall in love. But with the Games looming closer, can they hold onto their love, or will it be their undoing?... _Twenty-four go in, and only one comes out._**

**_Note: This is NOT a Peeta/Katniss story. This pairing is only because Katniss has a certain significance to the story. I'm sorry if you have clicked on this and expected to get some Peetniss (?) action, but the pairing is my OC and Peeta. If you could, maybe read my story anyway? It'd be very much appreciated. :-)_**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. Anything you recognise, whether it be the plot or characters, are the property of the lovely Suzanne Collins. I just play with the storyline. ;-)**

* * *

**Chapter One **

The sun filters through the tattered curtains, permeating the otherwise pitch-black room and making my closed eyes burn. I groan softly, careful not to wake my mother and two sisters. I feel myself blindly reaching across the bed, seeking Prim's warmth. Her side of the bed is cold. I open my eyes; there she is, in the bed across the room with our mother. She must have had a nightmare. I don't blame her. I was so very nervous my first Reaping as well.

Being careful not to wake my sleeping elder sister up, I slide out of the bed and change out of my nightgown that I've had since I was ten; not a lot has changed in five years. I throw on a shirt and a pair of jeans, not sure whether they're mine or Katniss's, tie my blond hair up, bunch it up in a loose-fitting cap and put my hunting boots on. My father gave my elder sister and I a pair of hunting boots each when we were younger. Not Prim, though. She's too young. That was before the mining explosion.

I relish the feel of the faded brown leather, softened from wear of use. I grab Katniss's hunting bag and check everything is in there. Good. My eye catches the bedside table, and I smile. Prim's left us some goat's cheese from her goat, Lady. I take off the wooden bowl that she used to shield it from the ravenous rats around our house and pack it in the bag; Gale, Katniss and I can have it for our breakfast.

I softly shake my sister awake. I've given her enough time to sleep in.

"Katniss? We have to go now," I whisper softly. We have to be quiet or we'll wake Prim and mom up.

"Unggghh," she groans blearily. "It's morning already?"

"Just after dawn," I smile. Typical Katniss. "Get dressed. Let's go."

Usually, the part of District 12 I live in, the Seam, where all the poor people congregate, is swarming with both men and women ready to start a hard day's work in the mines. Not today. Today it is silent. Today is the Reaping. Katniss and I head over to the fence, an electrical one that is never on. Theoretically, it is supposed to be on 24 hours a day, but we're lucky if we even get an hour. Still, she listens for the tell-tale humming of the electricity crackling through the barbed wire. She shakes her head.

If you were to look closely, there is a hole just big enough for someone to slip through. We found it quite by accident, several years ago, and still use it to this day. We continue in companionable silence, picking the occasional blueberry from a nearby bush; no words are needed on a morning like this. As soon as Katniss and I are sheltered by the dark, thick mass of trees, we grab our choice weapons from the hollow; two pairs of bows and arrows, one each, and a set of knives for me, because Katniss can't aim with a knife. At least, not well enough to score a kill. Further in, we encounter several animal traps hidden amongst the meandering green. I smile to myself. Gale was here.

We know the path through this wood like the back of our hand. We've had to. It's the only way we'll get enough food in order to survive. I hear a crunch behind me. I lurch, and grab Katniss's arm in front of me out of instinct. I spot a deer behind us, and before I can shoot, I hear a throat being cleared. The deer bounds off, startled. I groan in annoyance. Katniss jumps; I relax, because I already know who it is. I smile.

"Hey, Gale," Katniss says easily. We turn around, and there he is, a small, bitter smile on his face. That's the only kind of smile he smiles anymore. Our way of life in this hellhole of a District has ruined him.

"Hey, Catnip, Scar." He replies. Catnip is a nickname he calls my sister; when we first met him in these very same woods, when he was fourteen, Katniss was twelve and I was eleven, she introduced herself so quietly that he had mistaken her name for 'Catnip'. It stuck. My real name is Scarlette, but he just finds it fun to call us names, I suppose.

"You ruined my shot, dammit!" I grumble.

"I was saving you from your stupidity! We haven't brought our knives with us; we can't skin it. Imagine what it would look like if the Peacekeepers found us lugging a buck back through the town. We'd be put on the whipping post before we could explain ourselves," Gale replies, picking up a stone and throwing it.

Instantly, a flock of birds rise up from the trees, startled by the sudden noise. I instinctively pull arrows out and shoot rapid-fire, aiming for as many as I can. I know I have hit my target, because I hear several muffled thuds as the birds fall to the ground. Gale pulls out a make-shift bow; he isn't as good as Katniss and I, but he makes do. Katniss joins in on the hunt. After the rest of the birds have flown away, Katniss collects our kill.

"Fourteen!" She says triumphantly, unsticking the arrows from the left eyes of the birds and handing them to me. It's my signature move, the left eye. Katniss is the right eye. Gale... well, wherever. She hands back my arrows, all six of them, and places the bird carcasses in her bag. I laugh. We can all split the profits between our families.

We settle down and fish from the lake in our clearing as we talk for a while, a tradition we have upheld since we first discovered this place. We can talk about everything and anything here, where it's quiet; what we did the previous day, our thoughts and feelings about the oppression of the Capitol. It's the only place we can be ourselves; free from the hopeless dragging of our feet in our District and the Peacekeepers, who, ironically, cause more trouble than they solve. We rarely partake in happy musings. We amass a good deal of fish also, which is stored in my bag in brown paper so it doesn't spoil as we eat. While the conversation is still good, I take out the cheese, which is wrapped in a large green leaf.

"Look what Prim's left us!" I say brightly. I also take out the little sack of berries I collected in my journey here. Katniss and Gale stare at them hungrily. It's not often that we get such nice cheese, but it's Prim's gift to us on Reaping day. Reaping day. Today is the day where one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen – the tributes – are selected to participate in the Hunger Games.

Our country of Panem is said to have risen up from the ashes of a place once known as North America, after some kind of nuclear war. It seems like picture-perfect ideology; thirteen Districts surrounding a glorious Capitol. Yeah, right. Because some time into this settlement, the thirteenth District rebelled. They were crushed by the Capitol. Now, there are only twelve Districts and a large, empty wasteland with fumes still rising from the nuclear bombs. We see the wreckage on television sometimes. It's to remind us that if we try to gain our freedom, we will be destroyed. Well, another reminder, at least.

The Capitol's punishment for District 13's rebelling was to create the Hunger Games; an annual event where the tributes from each District are forced to participate in a contest where they kill each other in order to survive. Twenty-four go in, only one comes out. That's the rule. They broadcast it on national television each year, and, to humiliate us further, we are forced to watch it and treat it as a celebration. No wonder Gale, Katniss and I feel trapped in the confines of our District.

Gale reaches into his bag and pulls out a fresh loaf of bread. I feel my eyes widen.

"How much did that cost you?" I ask incredulously; it's not often that we get such a treat as fresh bread.

"Just a squirrel," he replies. "Mr Mellark, the baker, has a soft spot for them." He looks pointedly at me. I feel my cheeks begin to burn and I look away, embarrassed.

It has been a near constant practice of Gale's to inadvertently tease me about the baker's handsome sixteen-year-old son, Peeta, after he claimed he caught the boy staring at me on school grounds from his side of the oval. I sit with Katniss, so I tell him it's probably more likely to be her he looks at. Who wouldn't, though? She's beautiful, with her dark hair, olive skin and grey eyes, pretty much the complete opposite of me. It's rare to look like me, Prim, and mom in the Seam, with our fair skin, equally fair hair and blue eyes.

I change the subject hastily. "Now we can really have a feast!"

We tuck in vigorously. It isn't likely that we'll get such a treat as this again for another year, so we savour it as much as we can. When we are finished spreading the cheese over the bread slices and practically inhaling it, the conversation takes a darker turn, like it always does.

"One day, I'm gonna take my kids out here and show them what we used to do together," Gale smiles as he wipes his hands on his jeans. I'm glad for him. He is very good-looking; he'll have no trouble finding a wife. You can tell by the way the girls at school whisper about him as he walks past that they want to get with him.

"I don't want kids," I say. Gale seems to be disappointed. Probably because he missed out on the chance of being an uncle. I know Katniss shares my view. Who would want to raise a child up for slaughter in the Hunger Games, or live with the constant fear that the government instils in us? I couldn't do that to a child. Maybe if things were different, but they're not. This is our reality.

"Wonder who is going to be Reaped?" Katniss mumbles.

"Probably more _Seam brats_," Gales says, spitting the words out with contempt. He can't let go of what the escort for our District, Effie Trinket, said about last year's tributes. We knew them, kind of. They lived a few streets down from me and Katniss. They were killed in the bloodbath, the initial fight after the horn sounds that signals the beginning of the Games. We all knew they would. District 12 never has tributes that last longer than five minutes in the Arena.

There is an uncomfortable silence.

"We could do it, you know. We could take off from here, find somewhere else or maybe go into hiding. We can survive off the animals and plants in the woods," he says, almost pleading with us.

"No way. What about Prim? What about Vick and Rory, Posy, your mom?" I retort, getting angry.

"What about our mom?" Katniss adds. I tense. I don't particularly care for that part.

"I was just saying," Gale snaps back, obviously hurt at our blunt rejection of him. He and Katniss stare each other down, glaring. I feel guilty for speaking so harshly.

"Now, now, children," I try to smooth the situation over by acting like Effie, with her strangely accentuated vowels and precise, halting pronunciation that is so common from Capitol citizens.

It works. They burst into laughter. Gale takes his remaining berry and states in the same excited, anxious voice, tossing it into the air: "And may the odds –"

I catch the berry in my mouth, feeling the flavour hit my tongue in a refreshing burst of sweetness. "– be _ever_ in your favour!" I say with equal fervour, finishing the phrase that ends Effie's speech just before the Reaping each year.

We chuckle for a few moments, caught up in the peaceful ambience of our surroundings, before Katniss looks to the horizon.

"The Reaping is soon. We should head back," she says. Just like that, our dampened spirits return.

Just before we go back, I take it upon myself to collect a bunch of the fresh strawberries that grow on the bushes in this clearing. I put several in a decently sized sack, much like the one I use for the blueberries. I save these for the Mayor; I trade them in exchange for gold coins, so that Katniss doesn't have to put her name in for more tesserae.

Tesserae is worth a meagre year's grain and oil supply; we get extra rations of tesserae each time we enter our name into the Reaping. On our first Reaping, provided we don't enter our names for tesserae, our names are entered once; second, twice; third, three times, and so on. By the time we are eighteen, the last year of the Reaping, we have our names in the pool seven times. Katniss has her name in twenty times, I have mine in fourteen times, and Gale has his in forty-two times this year. Gale refuses to let his younger brother, Rory, put his name in for tesserae. Since we usually have a lot, I donate some of my tessera to the families in my street who simply can't afford to have their names in more than required. Katniss says I shouldn't, but I feel bad for them. She always says I'm too kind for my own good.

After I have collected a good amount of strawberries for both my family and the Mayor's, Gale, Katniss and I head back through to the fence. We check that the fence is not on and quickly slip through before we are noticed by the Peacekeepers.

Gale and I hand our bags to Katniss. She nods and runs off to the Hob, the black market of our District. The owner, Greasy Sae, is always willing to buy whatever we can afford to spare from our daily hunts. She always keeps it confidential; after all, it is illegal to venture beyond the fence of our District.

* * *

Walking quickly, Gale and I head down the road to Mayor Undersee's house, right in the centre of the good side of town. We knock on the door; his daughter, Madge, answers the door. She is Katniss's age, and we sit with her at school. Katniss isn't exactly good at making friends, and Madge is the closest thing to that for us.

"Pretty dress," Gale says, nodding to her attire. He's right – it is pretty, with the white satin veneer and pink sash with a matching pink bow in her dirty blond hair. A change from the normal drab outfit she wears, but that is just because of the Reaping. We're all expected to change into something nice to watch one another be sent to our deaths.

"I want to look nice if I'm going to the Capitol," she replies coolly. I can sense Gale's anger from behind me, and I can instantly see his way of reasoning, his thoughts; what is the likelihood of someone like Madge, the Mayor's daughter, being Reaped today when she's never even had to think about tesserae all her sheltered life?

'You won't," I reassure her, and partly for Gale's benefit. I give her the bag of strawberries and smile awkwardly. "Here."

She accepts it graciously, placing more than the usual amount of money in my hand. I look up, confused.

"Good luck, Scarlette," she says softly. "You too, Gale."

"Yeah, you too," he mumbles. I nudge him in the stomach as the door shuts, silently chastising him for his behaviour. We find ourselves back in our street in no time.

"See you, Gale. Good luck."

He turns. "Good luck, Scar."

Entering my house, I find Prim and Katniss already dressed for the Reaping, mom standing in the doorway. They look beautiful. Prim is dressed in my first Reaping outfit, and Katniss's before that; a beige skirt and white blouse with black lace up shoes and frilly white knee-high socks with matching white ribbons on her two braids. Katniss is wearing one of mom's old dresses that she would wear back when she worked in the apothecary and met my dad. She used to live in the good part of town, and wore beautiful dresses like that all the time. It brings out the blue specks in my sister's eyes. Her hair is done up in a braided bun and she has blue ballet flats on her feet. I place the money for the strawberries in Katniss's hand.

"He gave us too much," Katniss stares at the gold coins, just as confused as I was.

"Everyone can be generous every now and then," I say. "You look very pretty, by the way. Both of you do," I add, dropping a kiss on Prim's head as I head to wash my hair and face in the basin.

It takes a while; I may not have hair as long as Katniss, but it is most certainly more thick. When I am done, I see mom has laid out another dress from her apothecary days; pale blue with ruffled sleeves and white lace trimming, and a pair of blue buckle shoes. I dress myself and look in the mirror.

"Let me do your hair," mom says from the door. I have long since resigned myself to accepting her help, and let her work my hair without saying a word.

After dad died, mom became so depressed she was almost catatonic. She left Katniss and me to fend for ourselves and Prim. That is why I feel embarrassed whenever Gale brings the baker's son up. He saved our lives. When I was ten, Katniss and I were forced to go around town stealing the waste food from people's bins because we were so starved. Mom wouldn't do anything, so we took it upon ourselves. If it weren't for _him_, we would have all died. I think back to the day.

_I was picking through the bin behind the bakery when Mrs Mellark, the baker's wife and a horrible woman, hit me across the head. I was sent sprawling, too weak to bother getting up. I just lay there, shivering in the rain from the cold and fatigue. _

_I felt something warm touch my arm; my eyes snapped open and I saw him there, standing over me with a concerned look in his eyes. I felt confused as he crouched down to my level. He helped me stand up, wrapping his arms around my waist; once he was certain I wouldn't fall, he let go and gave me a large plastic bag, the kind they use inside the bakery. It was heavy. I looked inside and saw three expensive loaves of bread, still warm, obviously stolen from the front of the store for me. I looked up at him, confused._

"_Go," he said, smiling gently. I turned and stumbled back home, and for the first time since my father died, my mom, Prim, Katniss and I all went to bed with full stomachs._

She has gotten better over the years. Prim loves mother, so she was forgiven straightaway, and Katniss isn't as cold as she once was. I'm not so forgiving. It shouldn't have been up to us to be the breadwinners of the house. For some reason, I can't forgive her for leaving us like that. We could have died.

After my mom has finished, I look at my reflection in the glass. My hair is done up in some kind of intricate braided pattern, winding around my head.

"Wow. You look beautiful," Prim gasps from the hall, her reflection poking its head through the door. I agree. Beautiful – but entirely unlike myself.

"Thanks, mom," I mutter before pushing out of the room and out the door.

Attendance for the Reaping is mandatory unless you are on your deathbed, which the Peacekeepers come to check. We all file out to the main square. On the stage, the Mayor, a couple of Capitol officials and the oh-so-lovely Effie Trinket, our District escort, sit in the chairs provided. She helps make the sales and, hence the word, escorts us to the Capitol.

I laugh to myself as I see a visibly drunk Haymitch join the people onstage, late as per usual, knocking pieces of equipment over and stumbling into Effie, at which she lets out a squeal of disgust. I would too. Haymitch Abernathy is the only Hunger Games winner that we've had in a long time. He is meant to mentor the tributes and show them ways to stay alive, but I doubt he is of much use. It is rare that he is sober, and when he is, everyone tries to steer clear of him; he is even less pleasant then.

The area below the stage is roped off into fifteen sections; one for each of the year groups, males and females separated, and large one for the families, of which are either too young for the Reaping or have made it through safe. I see families holding onto one another. Katniss and I take Prim to go sign up.

Katniss has her finger stuck and is let through the queue. I hear a sniff. I nod to Katniss to go on and bend down in front of Prim. Her eyes are filled with tears and her bottom lip is quivering.

"Oh, Prim. Don't worry. You're not gonna get picked, I promise." I hug her. It seems to work, because she steels herself and places her hand on the table. She winces as they jab her and smear her blood on a card marked with the name PRIMROSE EVERDEEN. I'm next. I always hate it when they stick you with a blunt needle and press it to the card. I'm pushed by Peacekeepers to the fifteen-year-old's section. I turn.

"I'll see you later, Prim," I yell to her.

I stand with the other girl fifteens, exchanging terse nods as the Mayor intones his dull speech about the importance and historical value of the day. No one likes Reaping day. I look behind me to Katniss, trying to catch her eye; she smiles and waggles her eyebrows in an attempt to get me to lighten up. I giggle to myself, attracting a couple of stares from people next to me. I turn to look back at Gale with the eighteen-year-old boys across the square. He's looking nervous, probably regretting putting his name in so many times. As I turn to face the stage, I see someone staring in my direction. I lock eyes with Peeta Mellark; he smiles in a friendly manner. I look away, feeling guilty all of a sudden. I never said thank you to him that day.

An overexcited Effie, with bright white hair, garish green make-up and a powder-white face with an overly flamboyant pink dress comes up to the podium as the Mayor finishes to polite applause. We wait for her address. You could hear a pin drop now. Now comes the Reaping. Two families will go home tonight, lock their doors and mourn for their children. Once a District 12 tribute goes in, they don't come out. It's a death sentence.

"_Happy_ Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!" she squeals enthusiastically into the microphone. One of the reasons I despise Effie Trinket so is that she treats the Hunger Games as nothing more than another Capitol event, not seeing it for what it truly is; a cruel, admittedly imaginative way to punish the country for something that wasn't even our fault. Still, her overly atrocious appearance and pronounced words adds the slightest hint of humour to the otherwise melancholy occasion.

"Ladies first!"

She reaches into the glass ball containing the girls' names for District 12. In that ball, twenty of Katniss's name slips are in there and only one is Prim's. She rummages around in the ball and yanks out a slip of paper. I relax. It's probably another Seam kid. I look around at the scared faces of the bedraggled girls that are so obviously of Seam origin.

"Primrose Everdeen."

My world shatters. I feel my heart drop, and I forget to breathe. _She didn't. I'm imagining it._ I search wildly for Prim's form ahead of me, and my breath catches in my throat as I see her little form being marched by four Peacekeepers to the stage. A scream comes from behind me.

"Prim! NO!"

Katniss rushes up the aisle, screaming and sobbing unintelligibly. She tries to get around the Peacekeepers to Prim and instantly I know what she is about to do. I feel myself pushing through the sea of girls out into the aisle on numb legs, growing increasingly hysterical. They let me through, startled by this turn of events. _I can't lose either of them. I won't – whatever it takes._

"I –" I hear Katniss start, and before she can throw her life away, I scream out the words and seal my fate.

"I VOLUNTEER! I volunteer as tribute."

* * *

**DUN dun dun! Please remember to hit the blue button below and let me know how my very first story is! I'm new to all this, so any feedback would make my day. Thanks :-)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to my three reviewers for the previous chapter. It really means a lot to me! I'd like to say thank you to HopefulMe for the comment about my story. I do realise that it looks as if I'm writing the exact same story, just changing around the details, but that is only for the beginning. I do intend to stray majorly from the original plot of the series, so don't worry. Thank you for your lovely review; it's always good to get constructive criticism. ;-) Thank you to my first comment from the unknown guest reviewer; yes, does go a bit slow at the beginning, but hopefully it'll pick up. A shout out to daydreamer0001 for my first member review! I was so excited when I saw it! Thank you!**

**There's a little interaction in this chapter - if you think it's going too fast, don't hesitate to tell me so.**

**Disclaimer: Scarlette Everdeen is the property of _moi_. Everything else, I regret to say, belongs to Suzanne Collins. One phrase in this story I'll give credit to Stephenie Meyer/Catherine Hardwicke (not sure if it is said in the movie or the book). See if you can guess which!**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

"_I –" I hear Katniss start, and before she can throw her life away, I scream out the words and seal my fate._

"_I VOLUNTEER! I volunteer as tribute."_

Shocked murmurs break out among the crowd; there's some confusion onstage. No one has volunteered as tribute in decades, so the protocol for this practice is a little rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been picked, another eligible girl, if the tribute is a girl, or boy, if it is a boy, can step up and take their place. It is more common in other Districts, such as District 2, where it is considered an honour to take part in the Games. Here, it is suicide.

"Umm… Lovely!" Effie Trinket gushes confusedly into the microphone. "But I believe there is a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers…" she trails off, sensing that nobody cares.

"Why does it matter?" says the Mayor. He recognises me; I can see it in his expression. The girl who brings him strawberries, a rare delicacy in our District. The girl who stood on the very same stage he is on now with her two sisters and mother as he presented a valour medal to Katniss, the eldest child, for her father who was blown to pieces in the mines. "She volunteered. It is done."

"No!" Katniss is shaking her head and repeating the word numbly as Prim screams hysterically, locking me in a fierce embrace.

"Come up then, dearie," Effie Trinket motions. The Peacekeepers move to disentangle me from the vicelike hold Prim has on me, but I push them away. I crouch down in front of her.

"Go, Prim. Be strong. You – you have to pull it together," I say softly. This is upsetting, seeing her cry, and she's going to have to pull it together to ensure Katniss snaps out of it. Someone moves to take her; Gale. I stare up at him, grateful for his intervention. I don't know how much more I could have taken; I don't want to cry on national television.

"Up you go, Scar," he says in a shaky voice, like he's trying hard to hold it together. He pulls a robotic Katniss, still repeating her words, along with him as he takes a sobbing Prim back to my mom. Peacekeepers move to escort me up the little walk to the stage. I slap their hands away, affronted.

"Get off me!" I make my own way to the stage on leaden feet, remembering to keep my head held high and my face an emotionless mask. I don't want to look like a weakling. I clamber awkwardly onto the stage.

"What's your name, then?" Effie Trinket says, pushing the microphone in front of my face. She's probably happy because she finally got a District with a little Reaping day action.

"Scarlette Everdeen."

My voice is strong; I'm proud of myself. I don't sound weak at all. I stare out at the sea of people. The murmurs have long quieted down by now, all eager to hear what's next. I see a range of emotions on their faces; relief for some of the girls, because they didn't get picked, confusion for others, because they're just as bewildered as to what I just did as I am. The majority were looking up at me in sadness, because they know, or at least suspect, I will not make it out of this alive.

"Oh! I'll bet my buttons you're Primrose's sister! Don't want her to have all the glory, do we?" She giggles into the microphone in her airy fashion. That comment sent me over the edge.

"Obviously not. Why else would I be here?" I retort sarcastically for all of Panem to hear, shocking myself, because I'm usually very well-mannered in front of adults. I guess the Games change everyone, even if in a small way. The smile on her face drops suddenly, and she acquires a sour look on her face. Great. Now she thinks I'm an ill-mannered savage. I had to open my mouth.

There is commotion behind me; a hand roughly grasps my shoulder and a drunken Haymitch come into view. He shakes me vigorously. Um, ow? Do I look like a rag doll?

"I like this girl!" He says, the smell of his breath wafting over my face like a toxic fume as he wheezes mindlessly into the microphone. I feel my eyes burn at the power of the smell and have a strong urge to throw him off me or worse, hit him.

"She's got a lotta – uh…uh… something with s in it… attitude? AHA! SPUNK! Yeah! Spunk! More than you! More than you people! More than all of YOU!" He whirls first to Effie, then to the crowd and finally waves his finger at the cameras. What is he doing? I feel a small burst of admiration at his recklessness. Openly speaking out against the Capitol? Nobody is brave enough.

That disappears as he begins to dance around manically, seemingly triumphant that he found the right word, before slipping and falling off the stage in a drunken heap, passing out. Effie looks on with distaste as officials drag him away. Clearing her throat, she resumes the Reaping.

"Okay, then… Now, for more action! Gentlemen!" She trills into the microphone, shoving her talon-like hands into the boy's pool. She doesn't bother to swirl the names around, simply plucking a random name from the top of the pile. She clears her throat loudly, prolonging it and sounding so amusing that it triggers a couple of awkward giggles from the twelve-year-old girls in the front.

"Peeta Mellark."

Oh no. Not him. Not the boy who saved my life.

I see him walk out from his section, disbelieving of his misfortune. His face is shocked, but he doesn't look like he is about to cry. I feel a twinge of admiration for him because of this. He has two older brothers; I know, because I've seen them in the bakery on the way to school. One is too old to volunteer and the other probably doesn't want to. Family devotion only goes so far in our District. I did the radical thing. He swings himself up onto the stage, almost as awkward as mine must have been, and numbly takes his place on the opposite side of Effie.

"Any volunteers? No?"

Of course not. Everyone is quiet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for our tributes for the 74th Annual Hunger Games, Peeta Mellark and Scarlette Everdeen!"

To their everlasting credit, not one of them makes a move to clap. Not even the drunken punters with the betting slips in their hand. All that remains is silence. And, suddenly, as if of one mind, they all raise their middle three fingers and hold it palm-first out to us. It's an old sign in our District, used to say goodbye to someone you love. I feel my eyes begin to burn at this.

With what must have been a silent instruction, Peeta and I are whisked away by Peacekeepers from the people of our District and into the Justice Building behind us.

* * *

I sit nervously in the waiting room. The room is bare; cold grey walls, a door on the opposite end of the room and rickety, generic furniture. The metal chair digs into my back as I wait for any members of the District to come and say farewell to me before I depart to the Capitol. I hope my family comes, and Gale.

The door opens with a grating noise; Katniss, Prim and mom enter the room. I stand up as Prim barrels toward me, her crying starting afresh and nearly bringing me to tears. Katniss and mom stand there, grief etched upon their faces. I know I have to be the strong one now. I bend down to Prim's level.

"Come on, Prim," I say. "Be good for me."

"No!" She says fiercely; I am taken aback, because I have never heard her – sweet, kind Prim – say anything in such a tone. "You're gonna come back. Promise me. Promise me, Scarlette."

I haven't got the heart to tell her I won't.

"I promise," I tell her. "Mom? Mom?"

There is no answer. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused. Just like last time.

"Look at me. LOOK AT ME! Don't do this, not again. Remember last time? How we nearly died? You've gotta be strong. You have to help Katniss look after Prim, because I'm not gonna be there. DON'T YOU DARE SHUT THEM OUT AGAIN," I say loudly, getting slightly worked up.

"I won't do that again. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry," she replies in a soft voice. Knowing this is my last chance to make things right, I embrace her tightly, to which she appears startled at first but quickly reciprocates.

Katniss snaps out of her reverie.

"Look; get your hands on a bow and arrow, maybe a couple of knives. Head for the trees –"

There is a loud knock on the door. "Time's up," comes the gruff voice of the Peacekeeper stationed outside my door. Katniss, mom and Prim swiftly hug me one last time before the next person comes in. I turn around. Of course Gale has come to say goodbye.

"Hey, Scar." He looks as if he is fighting the urge to cry. I rush over to him and grip onto him tightly, because I know he can handle my weakness. He holds me tightly, because we both know, deep down, I'm not going to make it out alive.

"I have a couple things for you," he says, his voice muffled in the crook of my neck. I pull back, confused, as he reaches into his bag and takes out two items; a brown paper bag and a tiny gold pin. He puts them into my hands.

"The cookies are from Mr. Mellark. He wanted you to have them, but he's in the other room with his son," Gale says softly, gesturing briefly to the papered object; the cookies are freshly baked, giving off warmth in my hand and faintly smelling of oats. "The pin is from Madge; she figured you would want extra time with your family, so she decided not to come. It belonged to her aunt – you know, the tribute, Maysilee Donner? – and she wanted you to wear it in the Games. It's a mockingjay, look –" he unclips the pin and fastens it to the collar of my dress. I stare down at it.

Mockingjays are kind of a slap in the face to the Capitol. Decades ago, during the District 13 rebellion, Capitol scientists created these genetically-engineered birds called jabberjays; they had the ability to memorize and repeat entire conversations, and of course, were useful in finding out the plans of the rebel faction. But, soon enough, the rebels caught on; they started to feed the birds false information. When the Capitol caught on, they released them into the wild; as they were all males, they mated with female mockingbirds, creating mockingjays. They have extraordinary vocal abilities, and are able to exactly repeat a song you sing for them.

"Tell Mr. Mellark I said thanks, and give him my best wishes for his son. Tell Madge I'll wear this as my token with pride. Tell-tell them goodbye for me," I say, my voice catching toward the end.

"Scar, you're gonna make it out. Look at me. Okay?"

I stare up at him.

"Gale. There are twenty-four of us, only one comes out. I'm not gonna win this."

"Don't say that. Don't you dare. You'll be fine, okay? Listen – I lo –"

"Time's up."

"Goodbye," I say to Gale. He pulls away, takes a last sad look at me, and storms out of the room, making sure he pisses off the Peacekeeper who is closing the door behind him. I stare at the doorway, confused. Did I miss something? Why was he angry at me? I shrug it off. The second I am alone in the room, I feel nervous and scared and sick all at the same time, though they're all not so different from one another. I'm not going to see this place again, as much as I hate it. I'll never see Prim or Katniss or mom again. I won't see Gale or Vick or Rory or their little sister, Posy, and their mother, Hazelle. I won't –

The sharp sound of a throat being cleared makes it evident that Effie has come to collect me. Funny. I hadn't noticed her come in. I turn around. It appears Peeta's final words with his family got to him, because his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. I wait for her to speak, somewhat attempting to maintain courtesy and respect for my elders.

"It's time to go, dearie."

A big change from earlier, I just smile vacantly and nod. I don't have the energy to put on a toughened exterior, to be like my sister. I'd really prefer if I was on relatively good terms with my district representatives; after all, they're only trying to help me. And with a final look around the room, I leave my District for the train and then, the Capitol.

* * *

I sit on my extravagant bed in my equally extravagant room on the train after it begins its journey to the Capitol. I don't really feel like sitting out there, knowing that I might burst into tears at any time. I can feel myself tearing up at the thought of tearing up. _Oh, no. Here I go._ And suddenly, it's like a great weight has been lifted and I can't stop crying. Great hiccupping sobs erupt from my throat that I have no hope of stopping or quieting.

There's a knock on the door. Great. Probably a hung-over Haymitch coming to growl at me to shut up._ No thank you._ I don't bother getting up. I just sit here, bawling. Maybe it's Effie. Again, I don't feel like it. She'll probably come in with the intention of making me feel better, but actually say something to make it worse.

"Scarlette? Scarlette? Open the door!"

It's Peeta. Okay, him I can handle. He understands – well, he's sympathetic. (Haymitch – sympathetic? Ha! That's as likely as President Snow turning up to the parade in a fairy princess outfit, totally hammered. Ewwww… I'm scarred for life.) I get up, opening the door. He's there, of course, looking so concerned that I can only cry harder.

Wordlessly, he steps in the room and shuts the door. He engulfs me in a hug, just standing there in the middle of the room. I clutch onto him desperately, craving human contact. I am like that for a few moments, crying my eyes out. All the while he's there, running his hands up and down my back in a soothing manner and whispering words of comfort in my ear, telling me how I'm going to be okay. I'm slightly confused. Isn't he supposed to hate my guts? And then, remembering what Gale said about him to me once, and being in my hysterical state, I begin to laugh.

"What's so funny?" He says, pulling back, worriedly putting his hand against my face. Probably checking to see my temperature hasn't gone up.

I feel hysterical; I can't stop laughing now. What the hell is wrong with me?

"I – I don't know!" I get out before erupting into a fit of giggles. Everything is funny, for some reason. I double over, tears streaming down my face because I'm laughing and crying so hard. Peeta begins to laugh with me, because I think I look really funny like this and it probably feels relieving to have this weight off our chests.

My laughter abates soon enough. We've just about passed out on the floor, laughing our heads off. Peeta lets out a soft chuckle. I stare up at the ceiling of the train, with gold tendrils detailed over red paint. Why bother? People are only ever on a train for a maximum of, which is also our case, three days.

"I'm sorry about that," I say to him, turning my head in his direction to see him staring at me intently. I blush, but smile at him. What's the use of acting as if he's my enemy? He's just too nice to freeze up and go all 'Katniss' on. Might as well make my last few weeks positive.

"It's okay. As long as you're alright," he replies softly, grinning at me. I feel my heart flutter slightly. _He's VERY good-looking, especially when he smiles._ Oh – no! God, what am I doing? I can just hear Katniss and her 'heart fluttering and eyelash batting and true love is pathetic crap that doesn't exist! You have to be strong in this world' routine in my head, the one she's drilled into me from the day dad died. It's like she died along with him and was replaced with some super-tough fighter chick who doesn't believe in emotions that make us privy to weakness, and thus, human nature.

"I'm fine, thanks to you. What about you? Anything you need to get off your chest?" I say lightly, propping myself up on my elbows.

"Nah, I'm good, thanks to you and your slightly unhinged laughing fit," he says. He sits up, crossing his legs and looking down at me. I groan, because I know that that's going to be a topic he'll be bringing up to embarrass me over the next couple days. We sit in silence for a while, just smiling at one another. I feel the urge to move, but I don't really want to. It's only when his smile drops a little and his gaze drifts down to my lips do I jolt into action.

"Right then. I'm going to have a shower. Just gotta figure out how to use it," I say brightly, probably too much so, jumping up and heading to the bathroom. _Oh, crap! Clothes._ I swing around and rummage through the drawers, finding a set of sweats, a generic blouse and a plain pair of undergarments which, creepily enough, are exactly my size, all the while thinking of how bipolar I'm acting. I must be giving him whiplash.

I think Peeta picks up on my sudden, nervous change in attitude, because he jumps up as well.

"Do you want me to show – I mean tell – you how to use it? There are a lot of buttons and I can just yell through the door. I'll leave straight after," he offers. I'm tempted to turn him down, but I really don't fancy turning my skin blue or something, so I accept.

Entering the bathroom and being careful to shut the door behind me, I strip down and glance around the room. There are all kinds of gadgets, a lot of which look like they could cause lots of pain, so I won't be using those.

"Okay! So, what you do is first, turn on the tap, the one marked with the little 'H'. To adjust the heat, turn the other tap with the 'C' on it. Those are your hot and cold taps, and you don't need to wait for the water to heat up. With me so far?" He yells through the door.

I turn on the hot water, wincing and jumping a little as the boiling spray hit my fingers, quickly adjusting the temperature with the cold water. "Yep!" I yell back.

"Okay! To add soap, press that pink button on the far side of the shower. To wash your hair, press the yellow button. The gadget with a handprint on it – you put your hand on it and it will dry your hair."

"Okay! Thank you, Peeta!" I call out, pressing the pink button and the yellow button and letting the machinery do the work detangling my braided hair and scrubbing down my skin. I hear his shout of "That's alright!" and the sound of the door to my room closing, faint and muffled by the bathroom door. Instantly, a swirl of thoughts hits my brain, as if it wasn't safe for them to occupy my head while he was around. _What was he doing? Maybe Gale is right in thinking that he likes me. But that can't be right! He likes my sister! I heard his friend Delly Cartwright spreading it around in my fourth grade! Okay, stop – stop it! Stop thinking._

The shower turns off automatically; I'm left feeling relaxed and refreshed. As much as I don't want to admit it, that shower was probably the best one I've ever had in my life. We don't have facilities like that in the Seam. I towel-dry my body and, remembering what Peeta told me about drying my hair, I put my hand on the handprint-shaped machine before I lose my nerve. It looks intimidating.

An electric fuzzy feeling, not exactly a shock, travels along my spine and my hair falls down instantly, warm and dry. It looks very shiny and luxurious, the blond color enhanced. It doesn't need brushing, to my relief. I quickly dress and head out of the bathroom and out of my room to face the others – and Peeta Mellark. _Oh, Peeta - oh, no, you don't! Crap. Great._

Lovely. I have a crush on Peeta Mellark.

* * *

**That's the second chapter! Please read and review! :-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way. Anything you recognise is, as you already know, the property of Suzanne Collins.**

**I'm not actually sure about this chapter, so reviews are appreciated. I'd like the feedback, and if you consider it necessary, offer ideas as to how to make it better. Thank you to my previous reviewers; HopefulMe, I'm glad you like my OC. Thank you for your constructive criticism, it makes my day! Guest reviewer 2, here's your update. I hope you like it! Guest reviewer 3, I'm sorry to hear that, but thanks for your honest review; it's very much appreciated. _Clairebear101_, only your second time, really? Thank you! I hope I can get more reviews from you. I do enjoy the feedback, thanks. daydreamer0001, thank you for your review! I'm glad you like it. Here's your new update. Let me know if this one is okay.**

* * *

**Chapter Three **

_Lovely. I have a crush on Peeta Mellark._

With that unsettling knowledge in mind, I make my way to the dining area. Effie took us on a tour earlier, gave us watches and told us to be at mealtimes at promptly 12pm for lunch and 6pm for tea. I look at my watch, reminded by my musing. The goodbyes in the Justice Building must not have taken as long as I had thought. _Damn; 06:00:51pm. _Effie will be crushed.

"Sorry I'm late," I say as I take my place next to Effie at the table in the dining room. Peeta looks up at me, grinning, picking up on my dig at her. I can feel my cheeks color. It reminds me of earlier. But his smile is so infectious; I can't help but grin back. Someone clears their throat. I tear my eyes away from Peeta to see Haymitch across from me with his eyebrows raised, clearly suspicious. Effie remains oblivious, as always.

I act like nothing happened, taking the time to survey my surroundings. The walls are paneled with some kind of wood, with a lush cream-colored carpet. The furniture in the room, just four chairs and a table in the center of the room, matches the walls.

Some servers enter the room, placing an assortment of trays on the table. All kinds of foods are there, from simple soups to some kind of roasted meat in the center of the table and little bowls with different kinds of vegetables in them.

"Thanks," I say to the servers. They don't answer or give any recognition that they heard me. After they leave, I look to Haymitch, confused.

"They're Avoxes," Haymitch says. I'm still confused. "They committed treason against the Capitol, so they had their tongues cut out as punishment."

I feel slightly sick now, but the smell of the food is so tantalizing that my stomach can't help but let out a grumble. Effie looks at me sharply. I feel kind of embarrassed.

"Don't eat too much," she squeaks as we fill up our plates. "You'll get sick."

While I feel I could eat the entire table's worth of food, I know that following her advice is wise, so I put some of the food back. Our stomachs are not used to being filled with rich foods, being from District 12, so eating our normal portion's worth of this food would probably make us throw up. I nibble on the meat casserole I've scooped onto my plate.

"So, Haymitch, what advice do you have for us?" Peeta asks.

Haymitch pauses. "Stay alive," he mutters, pouring liquid from a flask into the water glass that the Avoxes have laid out for him. Alcohol, no doubt. "Though I doubt you can do that, even."

That's just fantastic. A bum of a mentor who doesn't give a crap about us. No wonder District 12 tributes never survive the first half hour in the Arena.

Peeta must share my anger at his carelessness in regard to our lives, because he stands up and he hits Haymitch hard across the shoulder-blade. I stare in shock; what is he doing? Is he trying to prove something? Effie looks as if she is about to chastise Peeta before Haymitch throws one back, his punch hitting Peeta square across the jaw. Peeta manages to stay standing. I pick up my knife and drive it into the table, in between Haymitch's fingers. He looks up at the both of us, amused.

"Well, well," he says in a voice that makes me _want _to punch him. "Looks like I got a pair of fighters this year, Effie. Good punch, kid. Nice aim, girl." He throws a compliment to each of us, with me still clutching onto the knife and Peeta rubbing his jaw._ We have names, you know._

"You're lucky – I missed," I say in a low voice. I pull the knife out of the table. "Here – I'll get you some ice for that." I motion for Peeta to sit back down. There is a bucket of ice with a bottle of wine for Haymitch in it on the wheelie tray the Avoxes brought in, so I scoop some out with my fingers into a cup. I rummage around on the tray for a tea-towel.

"Nah," Haymitch says to Peeta. I whip around to stare at him, confused. "Let the audience think you had a tussle with another tribute."

"Okay, well, one – that's against the rules," I say before I'm interrupted.

"Only if you're caught. It'll show the Capitol that you fought, you weren't caught; it'll earn you ratings," I could see Effie and Peeta can see the logic to this. They're forgetting something.

"Uh, Haymitch? _Two_ – how is it possible that he has mixed it up with another tribute if they see his giant bruise when we pull in to the station? After all, it's only us here in this compartment, and it's not possible for tributes from different Districts to interact on the train. The compartments are all closed off for the Games, and it's really not likely I would be the one to give him a bruise like _that_," I say, emptying the ice into the tea-towel and firmly pressing it against Peeta's face, effectively winning the argument. He winces slightly, so I relinquish the pressure a little bit. "Sorry. If people see this, they'll think that there's something going on between District 12's mentor and their tributes."

"Good point," he concedes, grumbling. "You got brains. And an aim. You think you could make use of those in the Games?"

"I hope so," I reply softly, still concentrating on Peeta. It's probably wrong to be so concerned over a bruise, but I can't help it and it gives me something to do. I hand the makeshift icepack over to Peeta and sit back down to finish my dinner. I can only eat a couple of bites before I feel full. Doing the decidedly wise thing, I stop and sit back in my seat, waiting for the others to finish. I do so in silence, and because I've already had a good look at the room, I look down at my hands, absentmindedly twiddling my thumbs.

A loud clatter startles me; I look up and see Effie daintily wiping her mouth on a napkin, folding it and placing it on top of her plate, which is almost spotless. I have no idea how she managed to do that. I feel an urge to roll my eyes at her fussiness, but I push it back; she's going to get me sponsors. I have to be nice to her. Haymitch is glaring at me from across the table like an immature five-year-old and Peeta is staring at me with that intense look again.

This is going to be a long couple weeks.

* * *

The rest of the day is uneventful. I spend most of my time roaming the compartment and fiddling around with some of the knobs in my bathroom. There's one that turns your hair pink; I had to go out of my room and ask Effie how to change it back. Haymitch burst into hysterical laughter when he saw me and the expression on my face. Peeta just grinned; is this boy _ever_ sad?

"I think it suits you," he said softly.

"Yeah, yeah," I growled at him playfully, rolling my eyes, trying to hide my pleasure at his flattering words, though they were probably untrue. _Oh, SHUT UP, Haymitch!_ I reply sarcastically to the choking, honking sounds erupting from his mouth; "Be careful not to have a heart attack, Haymitch. Wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Apparently, all you had to do was push the same button again. The disgusting, neon-hot-pink-purple color literally _fell_ off, as if it were powder, leaving my normal hair undamaged. I felt really stupid after that.

"Thanks, Effie," I muttered, going scarlet with embarrassment.

I feel a twinge of mortification recalling the event. I have the pin Gale gave to me in my hands, turning it over, inspecting the gold sheen while mulling over his final words to me. _Listen – I lo-_. What is I lo-? I lo… I love! I love what? Please, god, don't be Katniss. Oh, if Gale loves Katniss, he's gonna have a hell of a time telling that to her. I really hope he waits for me to come home; I wanna be there to see it so bad, it'll be…

That's when I realize I'm not gonna make it home. That gets me thinking. I'll never get to see Gale and Katniss get their first girlfriend or boyfriend, and eventually marry (whether to other people or each other), or Prim's last Reaping year, or _her _wedding. I won't see Katniss and Prim graduate from school (not much of an occasion but it's still an important milestone) or Gale get his first proper job (he's been working with Baylor, a miner, lugging coal from the mines to the deposit; a long and complicated story which I can't be bothered thinking through). If mom ever finds love again, I won't be there to share in her happiness, never mind the fact that I'll most probably be the only one to. Katniss and Prim love mom and all, but they won't take too kindly to the idea of her replacing dad, who they've come to practically worship.

"Can I come in?"

Peeta's knocking again. "Of course; it's open," I say as the door swings open and Peeta pokes his head around the door. He comes in and sits himself down on the bed across from me.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks me. I shrug and let out a nervous giggle. _Oh, great. Real smooth, Scar._

"Nothing. Morbid thoughts. The last words my best friend said to me in the Justice Building," I mutter, looking down at the pin. I can tell the mood in the room is growing dark, so I attempt to lighten it up. "My pink hair and how easy it was to get rid of."

Peeta laughs at that. It's too soon for me to laugh; it's still way too embarrassing to find funny. I hit him across the shoulder playfully.

"It isn't funny! I was genuinely scared that my hair would be pink for the Games! Not exactly ideal camouflage," I say in protest. That shuts him up. _Dammit. Me and my big, big mouth._

"It's okay," he says. That doesn't make sense. Oh! Oh…

"I said that out loud?" I ask myself, shaking my head and tossing the pin up in the air.

"Don't worry. I get it. You were just trying to make our… predicament a little easier to bear," he replies, catching my pin. Strangely, I'm not bothered at this invasion of personal property. I let him take a look at it. "A mockingjay. Who gave it to you?"

"Madge. Madge Undersee?" It's not likely he doesn't know her, but I ask just to make sure.

"Oh. I didn't know you were friends with her. I only thought Katniss was," he says. Of course. He likes Katniss. I already know that, but it still hurts. I brush it off; I don't want to make him suspicious of my weird behavior.

"Oh, no. If anything, I'm her friend. Katniss... doesn't really like people," I mutter, snatching the pin back from Peeta and placing it in the open drawer beside the bed. The bed… The room… I don't quite feel comfortable calling it _my_ room or _my_ bed yet. It probably has something to do with the fact that I am only here for another day before arriving at the Capitol.

"Yeah, I kinda get that impression from her," Peeta says. I whip my head up.

"What do you mean?" I start to get a little defensive. It's okay for me to point out my sister's flaws, but it is NOT okay for anyone else.

"Oh, nothing. Just something she said to me a couple weeks after the… you know," he explains hastily, evidently aware that he is overstepping his boundaries. I _do _know; he's talking about how he saved my life. I can't believe Katniss would be rude to him after he gave me the bread, therefore encouraging _her_ to hunt in the woods to ensure our survival.

"Sorry about that. She does tend to stick it to people," I apologize on her behalf, because she is a little too proud to do so.

"It's not your fault," he reassures me, placing his hand on my arm. I shift, slightly uncomfortable.

"I know. But, still, it is kinda embarrassing when a guy at school looks at me in a friendly way and Katniss tells him to move along like the shrimp he is," I say, trying to diffuse the growing intensity of our situation; he's scooted a little closer now, and I'm wondering whether or not it is Katniss he likes. _Don't be stupid; you're reading too much into every little thing he says and does_, says a voice in my head that sounds a little too much like said sister, sardonic attitude and everything. But I know she – _it_ – is right. _And of course he likes Katniss. Can you blame him from trying to come onto you? If he even is, that is. You are her sister, after all. You act a lot like her sometimes. I imagine it would be easy to pretend you are her._ Geez, I can actually picture her saying the words.

He laughs at this. "She actually did that?"

"Yeah. She kicked him in the shin too," I reply, laughing along with him; suddenly, it's light and carefree, and I feel myself wishing that we hadn't been drawn together because of the Games. I feel myself wishing we had been friends long before this.

"Scarlette! Peeta! It's time for bed now! Sleep, sleep, sleep! We have a big, big day coming up and we want you well-rested!" Effie's shrill voice echoes down the hallway, startling us from our reverie. I jump as I hear Haymitch's gruff voice yelling faintly at Effie about how she isn't supposed to bring him into crap he could care less about; that sparked a mini verbal sparring match between the two._ They do NOT get along well, do they?_

"I'm probably not supposed to be 'fraternizing' with you, so I'll seize the moment and go while I can," he says, motioning to the door and the muffled shouting that could be heard through the cracks. "Goodnight, then. I'll see you in the morning," With that, he peers out the door and sneaks off to his room up the hallway, shutting it behind him. Now I am left alone with my thoughts.

_Oh, SHUT UP!_ I growl to the voice in my head. It can't seem to shut up with the whole 'you're maybe most probably definitely gonna die' routine; it's getting old and I just want to sleep. _Is this what losing your mind feels like? _I start to wonder about Peeta's intentions. _Is he really being my friend, or is he just playing me?_ I huff and pull back my bedspread cover. I turn off the light and slip into the overly spacious, cold bed.

I get to thinking. He's been pretending as if he likes me, even subtly acting as if he maybe has a crush on me. He's been in my room twice in the same day, and both of those times I have ended up in what could be seen as a compromising situation by other people. Immediately, I think of what Katniss would do.

_Shut him out. Ignore him so you won't get hurt._

How do I know whether he is a player or not?

I've lost track of the time. Looking at my watch, I see over an hour has passed since I turned off the light. I groan as I prepare myself for what is sure to be a night without sleep.

* * *

I blindly stumble into the dining hall, still in my pajamas, after having quickly scrubbed my face and ran a brush through my tangled, curly hair. I had to pick parts of the hairbrush out of my hair after it broke while detangling a particularly nasty knot. Turns out I could use that detangling gadget that I used for my hair the previous night even when my hair isn't wet. What a waste of good hairbrush.

"You're late. And still in your bedclothes. Do you not have any sense of decorum?" Effie snaps at me as I slip into the empty seat next to her. Damn. And I thought we had started to get along.

I'm not particularly a morning person, which probably explains what happens next.

"Well, Effie, I see Haymitch drinking his pile of crap _again_ – before eleven in the morning – and unless I missed that little episode, I don't see you throwing a hissy fit on him!" I growl back at her, my head in my hands, trying to muster up the strength to be civil. I hear Haymitch chuckling drunkenly as he sloppily pours liquid from his flask into his glass, with more of it landing on the tablecloth than in the cup. Everything seems to be pissing me off today, and I find I can't take another second of Haymitch drinking whatever sad, sorry memories of his life away.

"Oh, give me that!" I lean over and snatch the flask and the cup away from him, opening the window and throwing the flask out. I pour whatever he had managed to get into the cup into one of the pots featuring an overly bright-painted, fake plant and slam the cup back onto the table. I slump back down and glare back at Haymitch, who is giving me the mother of all looks of hatred. _Oh, God, he's going to kill me, isn't he?_

"Okay, I'm tired, alright? I didn't even get an hour of sleep last night. And I did that for your benefit. That way, you aren't gonna die from some godforsaken disease that comes from drinking more that your weight in water! So, here's the deal. You stop chugging down as much alcohol as you do and help us with a strategy for the Games, and _I'll _try to be civil in the mornings. I'll be rationing your alcohol intake from now on. Either way, you're gonna have to agree, because if you try to sneak into the kitchens to get extra amounts of the crap I just tossed out the window, I'll find a way to drag my bed in there, sleep with a knife, and when I throw it at you, I WON'T miss my target," I say to Haymitch in a low voice. To throw him off, I switch my voice to a friendly, pleasant one. "Okay then. Do we have a deal?"

"Fine, then," he replies. He looks amused.

"What?"

"I like you. Unlike all my other tributes, you're showing a spine," he says.

"Well, that's good to know."

I grab some toast and butter it, not bothering to cut it. I pour some stuff called 'coffee', which is supposed to be hot but because I am late, is only warm, into my cup as I eat. As soon as I finish chugging it down, I instantly feel better. With that comes the guilt. I stare wide-eyed at my company.

"Yeah, I suppose I should have told you it has caffeine in it. I drink it after having alcohol to keep me from having a massive hangover, but they have the effect of waking up tired people. Feeling alert, eh?" Haymitch chortles.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry. I won't say I didn't mean it, but – oh, gosh, I feel so embarrassed," I groan as the implications of what I had just done hit me.

"Ah, don't worry. It was entertaining," Haymitch pours water into his glass and gulps it down. "Haven't had one of these in a while!"

* * *

After an uneventful day which consisted briefly of me stopping one of the Avoxes in the hall and telling them to cut off Haymitch's alcohol supply, apologizing to Effie and spending the rest of the day playing around with the gadgets in the closet and ignoring Peeta knocking on my door again, I finally manage to get some sleep. I wake up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. I get dressed in nice clothes after having the shower I forgot to have last night, making sure everything looks nice and neat. After all, this morning I am going to arrive in the Capitol.

I go over to the sitting room, having already had my breakfast in my room. I sit in tense silence with Peeta, Haymitch and Effie as the train continues to speed along down the tracks, ever nearing the Capitol. I don't exchange words with Peeta. I can't risk it.

Suddenly, the train slows down. I see Peeta beginning to smile and wave hesitantly from his place next to the window, and I know that there are crowds of Capitol people waiting for us to get off the train. Wanting to make a first good impression, I stand next to Peeta and wave with him. From my place at the window, I'm able to get my first real look at the Capitol.

It's like nothing I've ever seen before, with incredibly tall buildings silhouetted against a beautiful horizon. Capitol people crowd the station, looking like clowns. They wear the most ridiculous clothes with the most ridiculous hairstyles and colors. They wear what I know is typical Capitol makeup, but it looks like war paint. But still, I smile and wave anyway.

I feel Peeta's confused stare on me, probably hurt that I've all but ignored him the past couple days, but I continue looking out the window. The reality has hit me now, and I can't afford to spend the rest of my time before the Games fooling around with what may or may not be a friend.

For all I know, he could be the one to kill me.

* * *

**Please review and let me know whether or not I need to make some changes to this chapter. Flames are not appreciated. Thank you! :-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey everyone, I'm sorry I took a little while to get this one out. I've tried to roll out chapters quickly to get the exciting bits out, but I haven't had the time. So, I took the advice of one of my reviewers and changed the pairing to Peeta/Other tributes. I had a bit of writers' block in this section of the story. I know where I want to get to and what happens after that, it's just writing the in-between part is hard. Anyone who reads this, please feel free to take a couple seconds out of your time to let me know if there's anything wrong with the story, what I need improving on and where I did good. It would mean the world to me. I would like to get at least five reviews by next chapter, if possible; I'd like advice on how to add to the story, what happens some of the minor characters and such. HopefulMe and daydreamer0001, thank you both for your continued support. :)**

* * *

**Chapter Four **

_I feel Peeta's confused stare on me, probably hurt that I've all but ignored him the past couple days, but I continue looking out the window. The reality has hit me now, and I can't afford to spend the rest of my time before the Games fooling around with what may or may not be a friend._

_For all I know, he could be the one to kill me._

* * *

_OUCH! GODDAMMIT CRAP BITCH MOTHERFU –_

"Stay still, please!" One of my 'personal stylists' snaps irritably when I jerk my leg in pain. How the heck does she expect me to stay still? The eyebrows were hard enough, but her pouring hot wax on my body and mercilessly _ripping_ it off hurts like a bitch.

"Sorry! We're almost done; hold still," A stylist named Flavius says as they finish ripping my hair off with tweezers.

I lay on a table similar to an operating bench covered in paper, naked, having no choice but to let them do what they want to me. So far, they have washed my hair and cut it up to the small of my back, done this thing called 'layering' to it, took all the excess hair off my body, filed my nails, painted them in some pattern and scrubbed my skin with an exfoliator to get rid of dead skin cells.

"There. Now you look at least _presentable_," Venia sneers. I feel my eyes water slightly from the pain and humiliation of this exercise. She and her 'follower', Flavius, leave the room to get Cinna, my make-up artist and the head of this little team of jokes. Octavia stays behind and hands me a paper robe.

"I'm sorry about them. They've been in this business too long," she says softly before leaving. Before she exits, she turns back. "I really hope you can win; you seem like you can."

"Thanks," I reply as she shuts the door.

I pull on the thin paper robe, waiting for my stylist, though I'm pretty sure he'll want to see _all_ the merchandise, so there really isn't any point in wearing it. I inspect my nails; there is some kind of pattern on it, a whole bunch of squiggly lines in varying shades of crimson, gold and shimmery saffron. Soon enough, there is a knock on the door. A dark-skinned man with simple gold eyeliner comes into the room; this must be Cinna. It's surprising, because stylists are usually very extravagant in Capitol fashion; he looks… well, _normal_.

"Hello. I'm Cinna, your make-up artist; you must be Scarlette Everdeen. Oh, leave it on. I'm sure you've been through enough humiliation," he says as I move to extricate the paper from my already fuller form (does Capitol food have drugs in it? Or is it something the stylists did to me?). I comply, resuming my previous place on the bench.

"All I'll be doing today is dressing you up for the Opening Ceremony. I already have your costume in the bag," he says, gesturing to the black body bag in his hand. Oh, no. District 12 stylists suck. Last year's tributes were naked and covered in coal dust. Each District is required to wear outfits that reflect their District's work; District 12 is coal mining. We always get something boring, which is usually why we never win.

He pulls out the costume. _Not rags, not rags, not rags, not – _Wow. It's actually somewhat decent this year, if a little plain for the Ceremony. A black leather body suit with matching boots and cape, each with what seems to be _fire_ patterned all over it. Come to think of it, my nails match the costume. He takes an elaborate headdress from the carry bag he brought in with him, decorated with feathers in red and orange and yellow, amongst other things. I slip on the costume without question.

He immediately gets to work on my face. I don't actually see what he does, besides the occasional tube of make-up and various creams and powders. When he is finished, he shows me my face. The change is shocking. My eyes and cheekbones are heavily accentuated. My eyelashes are long and my lips are dark red.

He instantly moves to my hair, braiding it up and off my face in a similar fashion to how my mother did it. He fastens the headdress on my head with pins and strapped the cape on.

"There we go. Mr. Mellark is waiting for you out in the antechamber. Go; I've just got to set something up," Cinna says encouragingly, lightly pushing me towards the door. I already know I like him. Before I leave for the unknown, I catch a glimpse of the alien creature in the mirror. I turn away quickly, not wanting to ruin it for myself.

There are several hallways I have to navigate in order to find the others. I have to be careful or I could get lost. As soon as I enter the room, the buzzing sound of noise falls silent. I walk over to the far end of the room, to my chariot, where _Peeta_ and Effie and Haymitch are waiting for me. I catch the glares and the looks of intense loathing that kinda unnerve me as I head over; I quicken my pace before any of them have the chance to pummel the living bejesus outta me.

"Wow… You look…" Peeta says, staring at me in awe. All I really can do is stare back, because he looks like a god with his parted hair, matching cape and leather costume. Instead of a headdress, he has a helmet without a visor. I have to pinch myself in order to remember that he is not my boyfriend. He's not even my friend.

"Let's get this over with," I say resignedly, hoisting myself up beside Peeta on District 12's chariot. He seems to be angry with me. _Good. That's what you get for playing me, asshole._ I start to wonder where Cinna is as the first chariot, District 1, rolls out.

Finally, Cinna comes rushing up, spray can in hand. I'm suspicious of what he has planned.

"What is that?" I ask him.

"Well, how opposed are you to being set on fire?" He replies, amused. _AGHHH! FIRE?_

I squish my eyes shut as he sprays his crap over my headdress and cape, waiting for the stinging, burning feeling that comes with being set on fire. It never comes. All that comes is a tickling sensation and the back of my neck, which is fairly pleasant.

"There. Now, go knock 'em dead," Cinna says as the chariot pulls away and enters the show arena.

The applause is deafening; people of all shapes and colors and sizes are in the audience, seats filled as high as the roof, so many that I cannot even estimate a number, all cheering for their favorite District. They cheer as the District 6 chariot makes its rounds and then they notice Peeta and me.

"They're on fire!"

"Look! Look at District 12!"

And they begin to scream our names; Scarlette and Peeta, Scarlette and Peeta. I see our faces for the first time on the screen. We look strong, like unearthly beings. The artificial fire illuminates and emphasizes the shadows and angles of our faces and brings out our eyes. My lips look like they're bleeding in the light. The cameras stay trained on us as we circle the arena. I feel euphoric; I smile and wave hesitantly. People are lapping it up. I turn to Peeta and see he's doing the same as I; they can't get enough of us. I feel weak at the knees. He must have noticed because he grabbed onto my hand and held me up. I smile weakly at him, a silent thank you for helping me not completely embarrass myself in front of the entire country. Suddenly, I have an idea.

"Hold onto me," I whisper to Peeta. In response, he tightens his grip on my hand. I thrust our joined hands up into the air, making Games history; tributes are never on friendly terms, and this act makes it appear as if we are friends._ It's all for show._ The crowd takes the bait; the cacophony gets louder as they throw flowers in our path.

We stop alongside the rest of the chariots in a straight line. I know that if I look to my left I'll see the _I'm gonna smash you_ looks from the other twenty-two tributes. I don't look. No point, really. I know that we're earning favoritism from the public, because the cameras haven't strayed from our faces since we entered the arena, not even for Snow's big speech.

President Snow is, you guessed it; President of Panem. Pffft. More like Supreme Ruler and God and King of the world. He dictates our every move. Apparently, he sold one of the winning tributes from a few years back, Finnick Odair from District 4, as a prostitute. Gross, huh? He enjoys having the limelight on him once every year when he makes his fake friendly, sickly sweet speech, a major precursor to the Games in District 12. Usually because we bag everything that comes out of his lying, backstabbing mouth. But it looks like he's a bit disgruntled at the lack of attention this year. Ha ha. _Take that, bitch_.

The crowd applauses as he finishes his speech with the traditional "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!" routine. We all exit the arena in order, one by one. The cheering and screams for District 12 are the loudest. We wave and blow kisses to the audience like good little girls and boys until we come back into the antechamber. Effie and Haymitch are waiting for us; Cinna must have found a place in the audience. Effie goes on and on about how wonderful we were and how much money we're going to get in sponsoring. Haymitch stands there, his lips pursed in a line. I instantly think he's displeased. That gets me a little annoyed, because one of the bits of advice he had given to us was that we were to act as if we liked the people and we enjoyed their attention.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," he clears his throat. "Just proud of you."

I smile.

* * *

"… and he looks like a charmer, doesn't he, Kim?"

"Sure thing, Dacy. District 2 could have a winner this year."

There was all of one channel on television. Usually, they played the cheap five-minute cartoons with poor graphics and maybe the occasional drama series, but that was only for the rich. I watched it at Madge's once. The poor can't afford to pay the bills. But, since watching is mandatory, the events leading up to and including the Hunger Games are free. Right now, I am watching the footage of the Reaping to see what I am up against. I'm proud of how well I coped in my Reaping. Strong. That's what I looked like. It surprises me at how calm and rational I am being about my predicament. The ones that look the most intimidating are the males from District 2, Cato, and District 11, Thresh. The girl from District 2, called Clove, looks like real competition; so does the girl from 5, Dannan. She looks like a fox, with her elongated face, pointed nose and fiery hair. Glimmer from District 1 seems to be a simpering idiot; if she weren't a Career, she wouldn't last five minutes in the Arena.

Careers are tributes usually in Districts 1, 2 and 4. They are raised pretty much from birth as competitors for the Games. Even though it is illegal to train for the Games before the Reaping, the upper-class Districts usually do (Districts 1, 2, 3, 4 and sometimes 5). It is considered an honor to participate in the Games, so they almost always have volunteers. Yeah, I know, _crazy_. Everyone in this country is a whack job, I swear.

"Ooh, but favorites for the Games! According to Net polls, citizens of the Capitol like the look of the District _12_ tributes this year! How about it?" One of the young news hosts this year – I think the one with the purple hair and green skin is Dacy – draws my attention back toward the screen. They're showing the part of the Opening Ceremony where we come in.

"Oh, I _definitely_ agree! Their opening was SO dramatic! The female, Scarlette Everdeen, volunteered in place of her sister, something that never happens in District 12! How gutsy! She doesn't look half-bad for a tribute," Kim replies, her dyed-white hair piled in a cone on top of her head.

"And the male… Yummy!" Dacy giggles. _Grrrrr…_ "He's only a little younger than me, what do you think, Kim?"

"I have _no_ doubt he'll amass plenty of teenage fans, you included!"

"We'll keep you updated on the latest and greatest of the Games! Coming up, last Games – "

The television turns off silently. I place the remote back on the table next to the flatscreen. It's dark. I suppose I'd better get to bed now. As Effie'd say, big, BIG day coming up tomorrow. Yay. Can't wait.

I traipse off down the hall to my room. I just pass the cleaner's cabinet when an arm grabs me and pulls me inside. I squeak in my surprise and I hear the door lock. I kick out; I'm satisfied when I hear the grunt of pain that signals I've hit a target. Whoever it is lets me go. I fumble blindly for the door in the dark. I hear scuffling on the other side of the cabinet.

"I – I'll knee you if you try and rape me, asshole, I swear," I say in a trembling voice. I hear a lightly amused snort as the light flicks on.

"YOU! Oh, goddammit, I should have known!"

Peeta is standing across from me, almost touching me, sending waves of heat up my spine. His face is serious, slightly indignant, and I'm confident that I already know what this is going to be about. I turn to leave; he grabs my arm again and pulls me back.

"You've been ignoring me the past couple days, acting strange. Why?" There is little room to move in here, let alone rape anyone. His voice is low and his face is close to mine. I curse myself as I feel the blush rising up on my cheeks due to the close contact.

"Why do you care?" I snarl, pissed off with the fact that he's wasting my time and embarrassed because he's now noticed my reddened cheeks. He stares at me pointedly.

"Why should we be friends? We'll only end up like the rest; forced to watch one another die or, better yet, kill each other. I'm simply trying to make it less painful for the both of us," I say finally, refusing to make eye contact with him. I scratch the side of my head and yawn slightly.

"It won't come to that. We'll… I don't know," he says, grabbing onto my elbows. I throw him off.

"How can I trust that? How can I believe that what you say is true? How do I know whether you're pretending to be my friend, get me to _trust_ you, then as soon as we're in the Arena, you kill me? Now, I'm going to bed because I'm way too tired to deal with this crap," I say, not giving him a chance to speak. I turn off the light and unlock the door, closing it behind me, leaving the boy with the bread all alone in the dark.

* * *

**Okay, so... bit of a short chapter, this one. Um... sorry about that, I'll try to get the word count up for the next one. Please, anyone, let me know how you think I did below! Deliberately rude or cruel reviews (flames) are not appreciated and will be removed from the site. Thank you everyone for continuing to support me! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey people! Sorry again, it's a little late. I used to aim for a new chapter every three days, but now it's just gonna be when it's gonna be. Feel free to kick me up the backside if I'm taking too long. So, here's the new chapter. Thank you _everyone_ for their reviews in the previous chapter, I hope I get more. Would 18 reviews be pushing it? I love you guys! You make my day!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Scarlette is mine to do with what I will. There will be things you recognise here... probably because they're not mine. Thanks to the lovely Ms. Collins for inventing this series.**

* * *

**Chapter Five **

"_How can I trust that? How can I believe that what you say is true? How do I know whether you're pretending to be my friend, get me to trust you, then as soon as we're in the Arena, you kill me? Now, I'm going to bed because I'm way too tired to deal with this crap," I say, not giving him a chance to speak. I turn off the light and unlock the door, closing it behind me, leaving the boy with the bread all alone in the dark._

* * *

It's morning. I got up early so I could have a shower and breakfast before Peeta wakes up. There is a uniform laid out for me; black nylon skin-tight pants with a matching top. There are red stripes running down the sides. I'm a little miffed about Effie's choice in clothes today. It's not like the stuff she's made me wear the past few days. I get dressed in them, grabbing a chopstick from the kitchen drawer and using it to pull my hair up in a twisted bun. I can't find the hairbands here. That's when I remember; today I start training. A loud buzzing noise startles me from going into panic mode, because all this has just become so real. I hear the shower turn on and Effie yelling something down the hall and realize that the noise was the alarm. What a God-awful sound. I meant the alarm, not Effie… though it comes pretty close. _Ha. Ha. Eh… Maybe not._

Feeling the need to _do_ something, I start taking out pans and lighting the stove up. Why shouldn't the Avoxes have a break for once? With this in mind, I forage for eggs and bacon; I find them in different compartments of the refrigerator. Soon, the kitchen is filled with the lovely aroma of fatty bacon and eggs. I make toast also. I've only ever had eggs once, when I was eleven, but I remember Katniss standing over the warm gas stove and cracking the eggs into the pan, being careful to ensure the runny liquid doesn't run out of the numerous holes that riddled the metal surface. I can't believe I didn't think of having this for breakfast; all I had was some cereal I found in the pantry.

The team troop out from down the hallway. Peeta is dressed in the same uniform as I, while Haymitch has actually put something somewhat… nicer on for the occasion, other than his hobo rag clothes. Effie, while immaculate as per the Capitol fashion, is still stifling yawns behind her hand. I grab three plates and scoop portions of my cooking onto them, seasoning them liberally and placing them in front of the respective stools on the other side of the rectangular bench. Whacking a piece of toast on, I'm done and am free to do whatever.

"Good morning, everyone. I've given the Avoxes a little break this morning. Now! Breakfast; so, you can have either bacon and eggs with toast, or bacon and eggs with toast," I say cheerfully. They're staring at me, a little disoriented from the load of information. Peeta catches my eye. I send him a silent warning, making sure he knew that I was going to pretend that last night never happened.

"What about your breakfast?" Effie says.

"Already had it. Woke up at the crack of dawn. So, bye!"

"Wait, hold up, hold up, hold up. You know what you're going to do when you get to the training room?" Haymitch asks, his mouth full of food. Ewwww.

"Uh, yeah. Let me think," I say. Haymitch gave me and Peeta advice about this. Got it! "Stay together as much as possible. Stay away from the things I'm good or might be good at. Try the more mundane stuff like camouflage, don't just stick around the weapons. Learn traps and how to make fire, throw some swords around, try the fitness course, stuff like that."

"Good. You listened." Haymitch goes back to eating. While I'm glad he likes it, I only wish he didn't have to be so… unsanitary. I flinch slightly. "Oh, and… Try to get in with the Careers. It'll keep you alive in the Arena."

I groan silently. I knew this was coming. The best chance a tribute has in the Arena is if they are in the Career pack. It's not easy to get in. You have to be really talented to get in if you're one of the Districts that don't comprise the standard Career idiots. And they don't just let anyone in.

"You and Peeta will be leaving at five to eight. Be on time, please," Effie says, her plate now polished clean and dabbing a napkin daintily on her mouth.

"Yes, Effie," I reply, heading outside the apartment complex for District 12's team to wait for Peeta before going downstairs. No one ever comes up here, so I won't be forced to make awkward conversation or risk being killed by some of the more psychotic tributes – and there's always at least one crackpot in the brood, I can guarantee it.

I'm hit with a sudden longing for home. Home, with just three rooms and ragged curtains that don't shut out light, and blankets that don't keep you warm. The gas stove and how we have to spend half an hour kicking it and flicking the switch nonstop just to get it on. Home, a safe haven for rats looking to scab supplies and a dining table that is almost ready to split in half with age. No bath, no shower, no computers. Even though, now I've been here and grown somewhat accustomed to the extravagance that most people take for granted, I miss it. I miss being late for school because the door wouldn't unlock and we had to climb out the window. I miss having to use a bucket filled with cold water in order to wash myself. I miss the flickering lights that take a minute to start up again after you hit the switch. But most of all, I miss my family. Prim, Katniss, mom. Gale, Hazelle, Posy, Rory and Vick. Greasy Sae at the Hob. The Peacekeepers who care as much about upholding the law as we do. All of District 12. I miss my home.

I don't notice Peeta coming out of the apartment because of my brooding. I feel indignant his shadow falls into the patch of light I am studying so intently. I look up. We're in close proximity again, and I feel the color in my cheeks as I recall this being our position the previous night. His face is close to mine again, close enough to… _No. Don't go there._

"You done? Let's go then," I hear myself say crossly, pushing against his chest, shoving him out of my way.

The ride on the way to the bottom floor is awkward, to say the least. The elevator stopped once, letting two tributes from the seventh floor on until we reached the ground floor. The ground floor was host to the training room, no more. The four of us step out of the elevator. I instantly put on my game face, stepping into stride with Peeta, smiling at him. He nods once, playing along with the charade. Of course he remembers the plan. It'll throw the other tributes off if it looks as though we are friends.

Peeta and I enter the room behind our District 7 peers. The first thing that catches my eye is the equipment. Rows upon rows of various shaped weapons in all sizes are displayed along the wall at the far end. There are racks of bows and arrows. Several stations are littered around the room, occupied by various experts in trap-setting, poisonous plant identification, you name it. The next thing I see is the congregation of tributes standing around in clearly defined cliques. They are staring at me. Some of them are friendly, and others appear envious. But I know, in the end, all will be out for my blood.

My attention is called by the instructor, who intones in her dull voice information about the various stations occupying the room. I stop paying attention. There's a podium overhanging the training room just above me. I assume this is where the Gamemakers will be sitting when they gives us scores. Tributes are scored by how talented they are in their respective fields. Another way to look at this is the tribute with the highest given score is the one the Gamemakers want killed. A bit morbid, really, and quite horrible, because we're all only children.

"… And no fighting anywhere other than the training mat here in the center of the room. Got it, District 2?" Atala says sternly to the District 2 boy, Cato, who seems a little overexcited about this practice. His face falls. Bet he was hoping to score some fresh meat before the Games; sadistic freak. There has got to be something _wrong_ with the way that boy was raised.

"Good. GO!"

Everyone splits up. Soon enough, there's an array of noises filling the room and bouncing off the walls. Swords clashing against the metal dummy, the creak of the agility swings, the sound of instructors having conversations with some of the tributes. Ha! The District 1 girl has no chance with the bow and arrow. She's completely missed the target and nearly hit the District 4 boy in the foot, which has sparked a huge argument that the instructor has had to separate.

I follow Peeta to the fire-starting station; the man sitting alone there seems happy to have customers. Not really needing the introductory course, I pick a couple of choice items and get to work trying to burn the pile of dead leaves in front of me. I get my fire started with a pair of rocks soon enough; I've always been saddled with this duty back home in the woods whenever Katniss and Gale scored some quick meat to snack on. As per instruction, I immediately put it out with the fire extinguisher provided. _Wish they'd have those in the Arena during Game time._ I have to bend over Peeta and show him how to move his hands in order to generate a spark.

"Ah!"

He's quickly losing patience; in an overly vigorous attempt to get the fire going, he's scraped up my hand with his rock. Blood wells from the cut and steadily drips onto the dry leaves. He drops the rocks and grasps my hand in his. The first thing I comprehend is his hands; they're calloused from working as he does, but they're comforting. I won't say that sparks shoot up my arm at the contact and all that crap they put in cheap romance novels, but a steady warmth spreads through my body. The kind that reassures me that everything is right and good in the world. The feeling you get when you know you're home. The next thing I feel is the pain; stray grains from the rock have embedded themselves in the cut and it feels incredibly uncomfortable. I also happen to be one of the biggest wusses when it comes to dealing with pain. Atala has come over with a first-aid kit; she's got a needle in hand. Ick. I hate needles, regardless whether they're jabbing you, picking stuff out of scrapes, putting stuff in or taking stuff out. I grab onto Peeta's hand tightly as the pain intensifies. He rubs his free hand up and down my back in a soothing manner, much like the time I burst into hysterical tears on the train.

"It's okay, I'll handle it from here," Peeta says to the instructor as she finishes picking the rocks out of the cut. He squirts alcohol from the little bottle onto the cut; I hiss. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

I stare up at him pointedly. Of course I'm not. He chooses to ignore my smart-ass look and wipes the alcohol off. Wrapping it up tightly in the gauze – don't they have Band-Aids in there? – he fastens the pin in place. He doesn't let go. I look back at his face, trying to comprehend why he won't let me go. He's staring at me with a look that's making me nervous.

"I'm fine, really, Peeta. Now, let's try that again," I say, pulling my hand from his. I get up and move opposite him so I can gain better control over his hands. Mine don't cover his; they're tiny, but it does the job. A stray spark lights the wood up, generating a small fire. We put it out and try again, just to make sure he can do it himself.

"I'm going to go and try the agility course. I'll be back," I say to Peeta, taking advantage of the lack of tributes willing to try their hand at maintaining skill at heights.

"Wait! I'll come cheer you on," Peeta follows just behind me.

"Okay," I tell him, slightly irritated that he won't leave me alone after the little mishap that had just occurred.

I position myself, ready to take flight. The room is silent now, and everyone is watching as the timer on the clock runs down much like it will in the Arena. Eager to see what District 12 can do. What I can do.

10, 9, 8…

I have to show them all that I'm capable. I have to be able to look skilled enough to guarantee a spot in the Careers, though I don't want to take it.

7, 6, 5…

I have to get in. It's the only way I have a chance of getting home to Prim. Katniss. Gale. My family and friends. District 12.

4, 3, 2…

I'm off like a rocket as soon as the buzzer sounds. The aisle is designed to be similar to the situation in the Arena. I'm climbing up the rock wall, being careful to dodge the duds that fall off at random times. Once I'm up onto the platform, I have to swing along the rope ladder dangling in mid-air. The ground is made to look as if there is no mat there; like I will die if I fall. Great way to increase desperation. I haul myself up using my feet and run across the wooden bridge (will they have those in the Games?) almost falling through some of the 'rotting' planks in my haste to dodge the balls that are being launched at me. I can vaguely hear Peeta shouting words of support. _Focus, Scarlette. Now's not a good time to embarrass yourself._ I have to launch myself from the third platform to the gymnast's pole even higher up, about a meter away. I don't even think that is _possible_. I have no time to debate that. Another ball launches itself at me and I don't even think; I just lunge for the metal rod, hoping against hope that my fingers might find purchase upon it.

Success! I've grabbed onto it, but in my desire to get to this point, I've miscalculated the strength I need to reach the pole. I swing over the top as another ball comes flying toward me; I cry out as the metal chafes against my palm. _This is why gymnasts rub chalk on their hands._ I swing around and around until I get to the side. The last part of the test. I grab onto the pole facing me vertically and slide down halfway, when there's no more available. I have to place my hands in the miniscule cracks and go down that way, because they haven't put a mat down here. I will myself to fight against the urge to look down at the ground. I have one more step and I've finished. I hop down from the brick wall and run over to the finish line.

I just about pass out. I didn't expect such a highly-demanding course and I certainly didn't expect my reaction to be as such. I've never been the sportiest. That's Katniss. I hunt, but that's because I have to. I am barely holding myself up. The only thought that's running through my mind is _don't let them see me weak._

"Well done, Miss Everdeen. 59.34 seconds. Second on the Games record list," the instructor, Atala, says as she hands me a water bottle. I take it gratefully, gulping the contents down.

"You should rest a bit. That course is very demanding. I don't know what it is still doing here. It's supposed to be for _children_, for goodness' sake," she mutters as she walks off. _Yeah. How is any of this supposed to be for children? We're training to fight to the death. Nothing normal about that, lady._

I notice my hands starting to burn. I look down and see that they're bright red. _That's gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow_. Peeta comes up to me.

"That was amazing, Scarlette. Come on, I'll sit with you," Peeta says, helping me stay upright and leading me over to the bench.

"Where did you learn to do that?" He asks.

"Um, I don't know. I was scared out of my mind up there," I grudgingly admit. "I don't like sport much. I've always been average at it at school. Katniss is the one who –"

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?" I ask him, confused.

"Tell me what Katniss does. I _know_ what Katniss does. You don't need to compare yourself," he says, taking my hands into his. He places an ice block in them to help the burn. I look down, embarrassed. He takes my chin in his forefinger and thumb and lifts my head to eye-level. I never noticed just how blue his eyes are.

"Scarlette – you're not her. You are you, and you're the one I'm interested in." I smile softly, appreciative of his words. All my life, I've been compared to Katniss.

Something across the room catches my eye. The Career pack. They're all standing around, talking, arguing about something. I see Clove walk off and I know by the satisfied smirk on Cato's face that he's won. He looks over to me and I instantly know what it was about.

I'm in the Career pack.

* * *

**Next up; scores and interview sessions if I can fit it in. Please REVIEW down at the bottom of the page, only takes about a minute. It'll let me know if this story is worth going on with! Flames are not appreciated. :-)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey everyone! How's it going? Sorry I've taken so long to update, I just got a bit of writers' block. I wasn't really sure if I should continue writing this story because no one's really reading it, but I know that it won't let me sleep if I don't at least TRY to finish it. Thankyou to everyone who reads this story and gives me support. Thanks, reviewers, especially _Clairebear101_, for reviewing ALL my chapters so far! I really hope you like this one. Hopefully my 'exciting part' will be next chapter... Actually, it will be next chapter. **

**Um, I just want to point out something. So, I'm not gonna mention any names, but I got this review that made me laugh so hard I think I peed myself. So, right, some fanfiction user (again, not gonna mention names) decided they wanted to bag everything in my first chapter. The funny part was, the had been able to memorise entire sections of it and tell me every single thing that was wrong with it. I'm pretty sure that I DID mention in that chapter that it was really similar to the book, but it was gonna change from there, but... eh. They then proceeded to list every single similarity between canon and my chapter. Again, I said the two would initially be really similar. They told me that I'm obviously not serious about writing, and not to take offense. Show of hands - who WOULDN'T have taken offense to that? And, I'd also like to point out to anyone reading this that this is FANFICTION. People don't come on this site to post stories that could happen in real life. Characters aren't always meant to be like normal people. Sometimes we use phrases that may not be visually correct, but they get the message across, right? We write stories to share our ideas with everyone else, and not everything has to be completely accurate. Hell, if it were, this site probably wouldn't even exist. Also, there's a difference between a fair review - and some of their points were valid, so I made a couple of changes - and being just plain _mean_. I know I've probably offended this person if they've even bothered to read past chapter 1, but I would like to thank this reviewer. If you do read past chapter 1, thank you. I really hope you could enjoy it. And you've made my day. Seriously. ;-)**

**Disclaimer: Is this story mine? No, it's Suzanne Collins'. I just stole the characters and whacked a new one in. And sorry for wasting your time up above.**

* * *

**Chapter Six **

_Something across the room catches my eye. The Career pack. They're all standing around, talking, arguing about something. I see Clove walk off and I know by the satisfied smirk on Cato's face that he's won. He looks over to me and I instantly know what it was about._

_I'm in the Career pack._

* * *

There's scoring tonight, this second-last night here before the Games begin. I try not to think about it. I'm sitting outside the training room just after breakfast, in which Haymitch decided to lecture us about what we have to do. I'm listening to all the various noises as each tribute comes and goes. For some reason, each time someone goes in I wish some of them good luck. The seemingly-nice ones, like the boy from 4 or the girl from 5. They all have to walk past me, and in my nervousness I babble amiably. Most of them give me an array of weirded-out looks, a couple nasty ones and a few nice ones, especially from the girl in District 11.

Rue. She reminds me of… Prim. _Don't go down that road, Scarlette._

The male from District 11, Thresh, walks by; he intimidates me, with his hulking dark mass and that constant strange look in his eyes that has the potential to say _I could kill you if I wanted to_. Still, he seems friendly enough; he gave me a tense smile today during training.

"Good luck," I say. He stops and turns around.

"You too, 12." And with that, he walks away.

"What was that all about?" Peeta asks me, nudging my side gently. My heart stops beating momentarily; I'm not sure where it comes from. I've decided it's easier to be his friend than his enemy, so I've given up on the whole 'freeze-out' thing. We actually had a pleasant afternoon together; we watched a couple of Games highlights which kinda made the both of us feel ill, and we talked about life at home. Maybe he has it better than me financially, but at least I have a family that loves me.

That day in the alley, he was hit around the side of the head for accidently burning the bread. He was just eleven. I know enough from experience that Mrs. Mellark, Peeta's mom, isn't a very nice person. Snapping back to the discussion at hand, I peer up at him through my eyelids.

"I – When I get nervous I talk a lot. This - not my best moment," I confess, feeling the blush rise onto my cheeks. He laughs, a deep husky chuckle reverberating from his chest, and it makes me feel… Different. It's a new feeling, definitely, one I didn't know existed. Like I've said, I can't say I'm experienced when it comes to dating, or men, even.

Most I've ever been allowed to experience was being taken to a 5th-grader social by some guy in my class. How was it a date? He paid for my ticket. 50 cents for the both of us. And I only ever felt flattered that the guy asked me, but this… I feel warm inside. I blush harder, embarrassed about the path my thoughts are taking.

"Were you nervous… at the Reaping?" He asks quietly. The mood turns dark.

"No, just… cold. Unfeeling. In shock, I suppose," I reply just as softly.

A robotic female voice sounding out my name via recorded phonetics (which thus makes it very jumpy) brings be back with a jump. It's time. I have to show them what I've got. I shuffle up to the door, reluctant to enter.

"Scarlette?"

I turn back around. "Hmmm?"

He grins. "Knock 'em dead." I nod in reply and head inside.

The room looks much too big without all the people in it. The Gamemakers are in their podium, chattering loudly and getting rowdy. There's music playing, and multi-colored lights are flashing around the room. Must be tough, having to sit through children showing that they have what it takes to take another's life. And they're drunk. Great.

"I'm Scarlette Everdeen. District 12," I say loudly, commanding their attention aside from the buzz of chatter in the corners. The Head Gamemaker, which has been Seneca Crane for the past three years, motions with his hand, a gesture telling me to show everything I have.

I pick up a bow and arrow; docking the arrow, I instantly tell something is off about this bow. It's not like the lovingly but shoddily-made one I have at home. It's a cold, hard, Capitol-produced piece of weaponry, machine-made, perfect. I aim toward the target – a dartboard in the shape of a human. I let loose. My arrow veers off to the side, and I hear the Gamemakers laugh at this. _Lazy bastards_. Immediately they're back to their rowdy card games and loud music, and I try again. Dock, release. Perfect. My arrow hits the target dead-center. I look up at the podium, proud of myself. My pride turns to rage when I notice they weren't looking at me.

"Hey!" I call, but they simply ignore me. In my indignation, I notice a black cord running along the floor across the podium right next to Crane's foot, connecting to the stereo and the flashing lights and the poker scoreboard. Instantly, an idea flashes through my head. Dangerous, because I could kill someone, but at the moment I don't care. I head toward the knife section; selecting a sharp dagger with a weighty end, I take a second to calculate before hurling the knife at the podium. It hits its mark.

There are shouts of confusion as the music and the poker machine stop, and the lights pop with a loud crackling noise. We are all plunged into darkness for a second; the emergency back-up lights crackle and creak to life, casting the room in a bright white light once more. I see smoke coming from the point where the knife cut through the cord; geez, must be using more power than I thought. The knife is still wobbling in its grate, _right next to Crane's foot_. A couple of the Gamemakers have fallen out of their seats. There is every chance I could be killed for this, but instead I put on my brave face.

"Thanks ever so for letting me waste your evidently _precious_ time, good sirs, ladies," I say scathingly, firing one more arrow at a dummy just to prove my point. Bulls-eye. "And, Mr. Crane – if there's a next time, you can be sure I'll do my best not to miss." With that, I throw the bow on the floor and stalk out of the room, feeling the satisfaction as the door slams loudly behind me.

"The floor is all yours," I snarl as I storm past Peeta, leaving what is likely to be a very confused boy and a bunch of pissed-off Gamemakers in my wake.

* * *

It's about nine thirty in the evening now; I have tea in my room and spend a good deal of time trying to avoid Effie and Haymitch for as long as I possibly can before they hear about what happened earlier and track me down. I wander the penthouse and watch a few of the reruns from previous Games by myself, from the 68th Games. The sight of the young children makes me feel slightly sick, so I turn it off again. I don't know how people could find twelve-year-olds gutting one another with rusty shovels entertaining.

Soon enough, Effie and Haymitch find me on my way past the kitchen to my bedroom; I'm dragged into the living area to watch the scores being revealed, also having to endure a shouting match between Haymitch and Effie as to whether or not my actions were morally incorrect.

"What were you _thinking_? It isn't just you that's going to take the fall – it'll be all of us! You'll be lucky to even get scored a four, Scarlette," Effie says in a condemning tone. I feel my heart sink with this, knowing she's most probably right, but the urge to stick up for my actions kicks in.

"They pissed me off; they shouldn't have done that. At least I didn't hit him!" I say in my defense. "All they are is a bunch of fat, lazy bums who needed to be taught a valuable life lesson. Maybe they'll show more respect to the next lot of tributes."

Haymitch is amused at the whole thing; he thinks it was a world-class act. He's being very encouraging and approving of my behavior which only infuriates Effie. The stylists and Peeta are all staring at the conflict, confused.

"What happened?" Cinna asks.

"She threw a knife at the Gamekeepers' power cord. Fancy lights, poker machine, music, the works. She shut it off. Knife landed right next to Crane's foot," Haymitch chortles. "And what was it you said to them? 'Thanks ever so for letting me waste your evidently precious time', was it? What did you say to Crane again?"

"Um – 'if there's a next time, you can be sure I'll do my best not to miss, Mr. Crane'," I say, staring at my freshly chewed fingernails. My nervousness about my score has been getting to me.

"Priceless!" Haymitch cackles as the scores start. Mediocre fours and fives for Districts 4, 6, 7, 8 and 9, sevens for Districts 3, 5 and 11. Tens for Cato, Clove and Marvel. Nine for Glimmer.

"… and that was District 11, everybody. Now, District 12 – Peeta Mellark," the official host for the Games, Caesar Flickerman, reads off a scoresheet. Every year, he changes his hair color. When I was thirteen, it was white. Last year, red, so it looked like his eyebrows and head were constantly bleeding. This year, he has chosen a bright blue, a crazy but tamer color than last year.

"With a score of… eight," he says. Everybody rushes to celebrate Peeta's high score.

"Congratulations," I lean past Peeta's personal stylist, Portia, and whisper in his ear. Portia bumps me and my lips accidently brush along the base of his throat as I sit back down. I blush and look forward, drawing my legs into myself, preparing for the blow. Caesar calls out my name. Peeta reaches for my hand and grasps onto it comfortingly.

"… An eleven point five! Wow, Scarlette, you must really have impressed the Gamemakers, because this is one of the highest scores –"

And suddenly everyone is crowding me, whooping and cheering and pouring out drinks and dedicating them in our honor. I feel relief and excitement at my score. Then I realize the implications of it. The Gamemakers want me targeted first. They want me dead. I can't breathe. I push my way out of the celebration and head up to the roof, an added bonus of being in District 12. We get the penthouse.

Taking deep breaths of the cool night air, I force myself to calm down. I stare at the commotion below, the faint buzzing sounds of vehicles speeding by and distant people chattering incessantly. I hear vague shouts of this years' tributes' names. Despite it being dark now, the city seems to have come alive.

I count down the seconds on my watch. 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 –

10:00pm. Great. Happy sixteenth birthday, me. I hum the birthday song to myself as I stare up at the sky. The stars dot the black sky, specks of brightness amongst the dark. It gives me hope. It's ironic that a place such as this would be so beautiful.

"Whose birthday is it?"

I jump. Whirling around, of course there he is – Peeta. He grasps onto the rail next to me and stares out at the vast expanse of the Capitol.

"Mine," I reply softly. I'm one of the eldest in my year group, along with Katniss. So, Katniss has already turned seventeen, which was a couple days ago, incidentally. I hope she had a good birthday. I hope she didn't let the thought of me ruin it. Prim has to wait; she is the youngest in her year group.

"Well, then, Miss Everdeen. Happy sixteenth birthday," Peeta says, grinning at me.

"How do you know I'm sixteen?"

"Well, you're a year younger than your sister, and she's sixteen –"

"Seventeen now. Couple days ago," I correct him automatically, wondering what else he knows about me. About us as a family.

"Sorry. Seventeen," he restates. "Why haven't you told anyone?"

"What's the point? I'll be dead in two days' time," I say bitterly, leaning over the rail, feeling the wind brush against my skin. It reminds me of the way the wind would blow in the woods; I can almost hear the rustling noises as the trees sway. Peeta grasps my shoulders from behind and pulls me hard so my back is flush against his chest, a surprisingly intimate gesture.

"No, you won't. I promise you, you won't," he whispers in my ear. I restrain the urge to shudder as his warm breath hits my frozen earlobe, so close…

"How can you make promises like that?" I say, trying to keep my cool as his hands trail down my arms to embrace me in a hug. I'm not sure of the intention behind it, but it's warm and stops the goose bumps from appearing on my arms so much.

"Because I won't let you die," he replies. He rubs his hands up and down my arms, noticing how freezing I am. He takes off his jacket and places it on my shoulders so it covers my arms. I slip my arms in the sleeves; they get lost in the sea of material because the jacket is so big.

"Is that better?" He asks me.

"Very. Thank you – for everything," I say earnestly, trying to convey my feelings of gratitude for everything he's done for me. The bread; the jacket. Him.

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. Now, seeing as you don't want to celebrate your birthday with the others, we'll have our own celebration," he says. He envelopes me in a strange hug, his hands grasping my hips and swaying me from side to side. Wha-?

Oh. I get it – we're dancing. I've never really danced with a guy before, not even Social Guy – which means yes, I have with Katniss; we were doing a ballroom dance for the school talent show because she got into trouble with her teacher. It was her punishment, and mine too – the most embarrassing four minutes of my life.

"What are you thinking about?" Peeta asks, looking at the face I've pulled when recalling the memory. I slide my arms up to rest on his shoulders, shaking my head.

"Uh – remember… the talent show that year Katniss got into trouble with Mr. Heinberg?"

He laughs. Grrrrr.

"Yes, I remember that! That was cute," he teases. I hit him on the shoulder, but I can't help laughing as well. I can see how it was funny; a ten-year-old girl practically hauling her younger sister along the stage with spastic movements that could barely be classified as dancing. That same younger girl tripping over Katniss' overlarge foot and nearly falling off the stage.

The laughter abates. We look up to see the first of the year's snow falling. Pretty white flakes get caught in my air and eyelashes. I look up at Peeta; he smiles back, and I feel a loud thud in my chest and a new feeling. I don't know what it means, and I don't care because I'm so lost up in him, in this moment. And as we dance to our own music through the night, the world around us turns to white.

* * *

_Dancing; figures waltz in and out of the world, keeping in time to a tuneless melody, all swishing and swaying in the breeze. I dance with them. Smiling and laughing, I reach up to touch my partner's face… A loud thud in my chest and a new feeling…_

"_I love you, Peeta."_

I wake up with a start, heart racing over the dream I just had. What the hell? Maybe the Capitol air is getting to me. But… I really could see myself saying that to Peeta. I haven't really _known _him for that long, but love makes you do crazy things. _Love? No, I don't love Peeta… But it's possible that I might._

I try the words out in my head. _I think I love Peeta. _I decide it's all too confusing. I DON'T love him. I can't. There's every chance that it's a petty obsession. I summarize my feelings for Peeta. _I know I harbor feelings way beyond a crush; it's just, to what extent? Could I really love him? _It doesn't matter now if I do or don't. It's too late. We're going to die in the Arena tomorrow.

My muscles protesting from lack of rest, I stretch my limbs and trudge down to the kitchen for my first meal of the day and Haymitch's advice for the two of us on how to act in the Games interviews. Caesar Flickerman, as host, spends three minutes with each of the tributes in front all of the Capitol citizens, broadcasting live around Panem. It is the most essential aspect in nabbing sponsors for the Games. They have to like you.

As I enter the kitchen, I notice Peeta is absent. I sit down across from Haymitch.

"Where's Peeta?" I ask him.

"Well, good morning to you, too," Haymitch grumbles, tossing a waffle onto his plate and piling jam onto it. When he looks at me for the first time this morning and notices the look on my face, he clears his throat. "Peeta's requested private training."

I freeze. Instantly, I'm hurt. I thought we were… whatever we were. So he just up and left me hanging after last night, huh? Now I have a reason to be pissed.

"Come on – don't tell me you didn't see this coming. It happens every year. One of the tributes wishes to be separated from the other. He's intimidated by you, sweetheart," Haymitch says. "Now, hurry up and eat before I eat it all."

I take a couple pieces of toast and eat in silence, not bothered with putting any butter or flavored toppings. In my head I'm still reeling. Why would he do something like that? Is it me? Am I not worth his time? _That's not it. Like Haymitch said, he's intimidated by you. You shouldn't have let him in. You got hurt again, Scar, and now he's most likely going to kill you._ Truth is I _did_ see this coming, earlier, when I refused to allow myself to be his friend. I know now that that was smarter, that choice. Katniss' choice. I wish I had listened to that voice in my head telling me _not_ to allow him any room in my heart. But I did, and now I'm paying the price. _You're NOT in love. It's probably infatuation._ I could convince myself that I'm not, and that what I'm feeling is most probably a petty teenage emotion, but I know it's no use. Whatever this is, it's strong, and I won't be able to let it go easily. But I can pretend that it doesn't exist. _After all, you've been able to pretend that you're happy in District 12 for fifteen years; why can't you pretend that you don't have feelings for Peeta Mellark?_

Haymitch and I have our own private counseling session, trying to figure out which angle I should play. Let's just say, sexy? No. Broody won't work because I'm not intimidating enough to pull it off. Over-confidence is also scrapped. I try to act all kinds of happy, sad and angry, but it's no use. I don't have an angle, whatsoever.

"You know what? Just be yourself; slightly sarcastic but usually friendly and good-tempered," Haymitch says after about four hours of torture. "Maybe not the world's best, but they'll appreciate the down-to-earth attitude and the honesty."

Seriously? Four hours just to be told I'm okay the way I am? Great.

"Effie's in the lounge room. You have to practice _having _the interview with her now. Good luck for that," Haymitch dismisses me. I get up and head toward the door without so much as a goodbye to Haymitch.

On my way to see Effie, Peeta comes out of his room. Oh, great. And I was hoping that we wouldn't cross paths today.

"Hi, Scarlette," he says a little warily. Good. He knows that I'm pissed off by his backstabbing move. I stare at him coldly and walk past silently. _Good, Scar. Don't show how you really feel._

Effie has a clipboard at the ready; today, she's decided to dye her hair bright canary yellow, which is further accentuated by a pair of yellow heels. She's wearing a green dress and green make-up. _Someone needs to tell her that she can't dress herself._

"Good morning, Scarlette," she says politely, already getting down to business. I pretty much know by now that we'll be spending the rest of the day doing this. _So much for a break._ "Now – I've already seen Mr. Mellark and figured out the angle he shall be playing. What has Haymitch told you to be? Smart? Funny?"

"He told me to be myself," I reply. She clucks disappointedly. Suddenly, as irritating as he is, I wish that Haymitch was teaching me how to behave in the interview.

"So, how would you best describe yourself, in order to make this task easier on me?" she asks.

"Um, sarcastic humor. Generally friendly and well-mannered. That's according to Haymitch," I tell her, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind my ear. She notes all this on her clipboard.

After this, she asks me several interview questions that I'm told to expect in the actual interviews this evening. I answer them to the best of my ability, but because I'm so tense about tomorrow, she goes off at me.

"No, no, NO! See, you have to be friendly, get people to like you! If you're not liked, there's NO chance of you getting home!" she throws her clipboard on the couch and paces nervously.

"Why do you want ME to go home? Why can't you make Peeta your mascot?" I ask irritably. As soon as I ask the question, I really do become suspicious. Why did Peeta request private lessons? Why are Haymitch and Effie trying so hard to make sure I'm the one everyone will like?

"Um… just because," she mutters. She sits down and places her hand on my knee comfortingly. "Now, I know this whole thing is difficult for you," she says. _Yeah. How would you know?_ "But there are people who are relying on you. Don't… don't you want to see your family again?"

The nerve of that question strikes a chord in me. _If I want to see Prim and Katniss and Gale again, I have to make an impression_.

"Okay, then. Give me the best questions you got," I say.

After that, I try to be friendly and sociable. I pretend that I'm talking to Prim. Conversations with her are always light and happy; well, relatively. Talking with Katniss and Gale is always a little spirit-dampening, which is why I constantly have to tell them to have their conversations away from our house. Prim's too young to have to deal with the difficult truths of our world. It's my responsibility to ensure she doesn't become a bitter child stuck in an everlasting loop of anger at the injustices of Panem. To ensure she doesn't become like Gale and Katniss and I. So I hide my true feelings and I put on a happy front so Prim knows everything is okay in the world. In some ways, Prim is much more wise that any of us. In others, she is still just a twelve-year-old girl. Something I constantly have to remind Katniss; she's just a child. No need to poison her yet.

When it's finished, we've spent another four hours practicing. I've won Effie's supreme mark of approval by this point.

"Well done, very well done! Oh, darling, the Capitol will simply LOVE you, if they don't already!" she simpers, even reaching over to give me a hug. "Now, the cars will be here at any minute. Go down and wait for them; you don't want to keep Cinna waiting!"

For the first time in this entire ordeal, I feel that everything may be alright. _Interviews, here I come._

* * *

**Okay everyone! So I didn't get the interviews done this chapter, because it would have been too long and the next chapter too short. That's up next. So, reviewing is down the bottom; only takes a couple of minutes. Let me know if there's anyting you'd like to see later on in the story (yes, HopefulMe, I'm gonna pair Katniss and Gale together. :-) Anyone else you you want to see together? It'd really help in creating some background stories for other characters). Hope I get a few reviews. Constructive criticism please, no flames. Thanks! :-) xxx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hi again, everybody! I'm sorry it has taken this long! I had other commitments and massive amounts of writer's block; I know where I want to go with this story, it's just bridging the gaps between the two points in time that was hard. I'm really uncertain about the ending, so if you could let me know what you think...?**

**Here's the next chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven **

"_Well done, very well done! Oh, darling, the Capitol will simply LOVE you, if they don't already!" she simpers, even reaching over to give me a hug. "Now, the cars will be here at any minute. Go down and wait for them; you don't want to keep Cinna waiting!"_

_For the first time in this entire ordeal, I feel that everything may be alright. _Interviews, here I come.

* * *

I choose the second car on the way to the interviews; sure, I have to put up with Effie's incessant chatter about the more mundane aspects of her life, but it's better than trying to ignore Peeta and dealing with Haymitch grumbling about how irritating ties are. We pass several shops on the way, full of the strangest things. There are stores with the most bizarre dresses in them, all different sizes and shapes and colors and it makes my eyes hurt. I look away from those. There are a couple of merchandise stores, and I see… wigs. A blond one catches my eye, and I notice my face on the packaging before we speed off again. _Great. I have my very own wig._ All Effie does when she sees this is squeals about how famous I'll be if I win the Games. _Oh yeah, because fame will be the first thing on my mind when I emerge from the Arena… If I emerge alive._

When we get there, Cinna rushes out to get me dressed. The stylists are all there; Venia, Flavius and Octavia. The first two seem friendlier towards me. Probably because there's a good chance that I could win the Games, what with the opening ceremony and my score. They all pitch in on a few last-minute touch-ups; instead of waxing, thank goodness, they use a razor to remove hairs from my body. Tweezers hover around my face, plucking random hairs from its surface. My hair is washed and blow-dried; my skin lathered down with this gritty soap meant to remove dead skin. Sorta similar to the stuff they used when I first came in, although this time it's considerably less painful. They apply different moisturizers to different parts of my body. The make-up this time around is a lot more natural; just basic powder and a pale beige-pink blush swept across my cheeks. The only really bold thing they smear across my face is red lipstick; they use light brown eye-shadow on my upper lids. Lightly-penned black eye-liner and mascara.

Octavia teases my hair into various shapes under Cinna's command; I know nothing of what she's actually _doing_ because there are cloths over the mirrors, and I don't really care because she's tugging really hard and it hurts. Cinna tries to pierce my ears, but I remain adamant that I won't be lured by Capitol pretense; my ears are my own, thank you very much. Instead, he clasps fake ones on; they pinch like a _bitch_! Finally, they take out my dress. I'm not allowed to see it, so they force me to close my eyes and blindly feel my way into the dress. Venia zips up the back. I hear a rustling noise; probably the sound of the sheets being pulled off the mirror.

"Okay, sweetie, you can open your eyes now," Flavius says. I oblige out of curiosity.

The first thing I notice is the dress. It's similar to what I wore at the opening ceremony. It's black, with fiery patterns inching their way up from the bottom at knee-height in spirals of red, orange and yellow. The dress is empire-waisted – I only know that because I had to listen for ages about the difference between standard and empire-waisted dresses from Octavia – with a red silk sash of a much richer kind than the one Madge Undersee had on her Reaping dress. It's much less extravagant than normal Capitol clothing – thank God – and could even be deemed ordinary, but I'm told it's meant to add to the charm. It's very beautiful to me.

"I suppose the dress could have been a little nicer; it's much too simple," Venia complains as she straightens out the knee-length hem at the back.

"No. I think it's beautiful. I didn't get to wear stuff like this back home," I tell her, admiring the thread work along the bottom of the dress.

"Oh, what a darling!" she replies to my comment. _Okay, then…_

My hair is surprisingly simple as well; it's been pulled up in a bun with several braids wrapping it. A red silk headband with little orange and yellow gems ties my hair in with the dress.

"Thank you," I turn to Cinna. _Thank you for making me a princess._

"You deserve it," he says earnestly. With that, he produces a pair of glittering black heels. _Whoa mama, look at the size of those things!_

"They're really pretty but… Are you sure they're safe to wear?" I eye them warily. I had to practice walking and sitting in a pair of heels earlier with Effie, but they were tame. These are massive-inch ones and I'm pretty sure I will fail at walking in them.

"Don't worry, we'll practice if you want to," Octavia offers.

"No, it's okay," I reply hastily. I take the heels from Cinna, sit on the bench and slip them on. I squish my eyes shut as I stand up, knowing that I will probably topple over. Nothing happens. I open them. I'm instantly a lot taller than I was. They don't actually look too bad. I shift my weight onto my left leg so I don't look so awkward in them. There. That's better. I look more like a 'maturing young lady', as Greasy Sae would call it. Not quite so much a plain Jane anymore.

"You look beautiful, Scar, but we gotta go now; they're just about to bring District 1 in," Cinna says, placing his hand on my back and pushing me out the room.

As we walk, I realize how much I hate Capitol buildings. There're so many hallways, so it would be very easy to get lost. I keep stumbling over the carpet in these goddamn shoes as well. Cinna has had to help me keep my balance more than once. With a mutter of relief, Cinna and I reach a door with INTERVIEWS marked on it, and he pushes me inside.

"Wait!" He turns back.

"What do I do? How am I supposed to –" I start to panic. He takes my face in his hands, effectively shutting me up.

"You'll be fine, don't worry. I'll be in the audience. Pretend that you're talking to me. Now, if I don't go now, I'll lose my seat. You'll be okay, I promise," he says, and with that, he almost runs down the hall to find the audience. I start to feel light-headed in my nervousness. I stumble back, trying to find a chair to sink down on. Nope. Instead, as I turn around, I crash into Peeta.

"Are you okay?" he asks me, gripping onto my upper arms to steady me.

"I'm fine," I say shakily, laughing. "You know, we've gotta stop doing this," I motion between us as he lets me go.

"What? Me being a hero and saving the damsel in distress?" he chuckles at his dig at me. I swat his arm playfully. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever," I say as we sit down in our allotted seats just after the District 11 tributes and watch as the interviews start.

As soon as she walks out, it is easy to tell what angle Glimmer's mentors have chosen for her. In her pale pink floor-length gown with an accentuated bust and a long slit up the side, she was pretty much the definition of sexy. Fortunately, first impressions aren't everything; for the entire three minutes, her interview is incredibly vapid. When she finishes, the audience claps approvingly; she's obviously a crowd favorite. Another one I watch out for is Clove; her interview is pretty bland and I can see that the crowd isn't as enthusiastic about her as they were for Glimmer. Cato is confident and looks more human than rabid animal tonight, dressed fairly casual with his hair slicked back. The next few Districts haven't quite lived up to previous interviews; I note that Rue from District 11 can climb well and run fast. Thresh is dark and scowling, something that I know that I could never pull off. The crowd seems to enjoy his interview also.

The technician suddenly pokes his head in the room and pulls off his headset.

"Oi! You," he points at me. "Your turn."

I stand up and walk toward the door, but an arm grabs mine.

"Break a leg," Peeta grins before letting my arm go.

"Thanks. You too," I say, for I won't see him until after the interviews are done; the tributes who have had their interviews are kept in a separate chamber on the opposite side of the stage. In nervousness, I reach down and pull him into a tight hug before departing as quickly as I could.

I start the long walk down a narrow hallway tiled with black and white marble, like a chessboard; it is surprisingly lavish for such a small space. Only one person at a time can walk through here. I walk up the steps at the end of the hall and step out into public view. The flashing of the cameras in the audience and the spotlights and the screaming from the crowd all assault my senses at once; I blink, trying to maintain my composure. I see Caesar Flickerman wave me over. Remembering the role I have to play, I paste on a smile and make my way over to the lush red couches and sit as gracefully as I can. Caesar motions with his hands; the crowd quiets, eager to get this interview started.

"Well, well," he chuckles, clapping his hands together in delight. "Scarlette Everdeen, you sure made an entrance. How are you tonight? You look stunning!"

I glance over to Cinna in the VIP section of the crowd, a part heavily roped off; he nods encouragingly, smiling. And before I know it, I relax, and the words just come out naturally.

"Why, thank you Caesar! And I'm great! How are you?" I say brightly. Internally, I'm surprised at the friendly aura I am able to exude, because that isn't usually my style with strangers. But there is something about Caesar that makes you feel comfortable.

He laughs. Why must Capitol people laugh at everything the tributes say like it is some great big joke?

"I'm feeling great, Scarlette. Now," he says in a mock serious tone that really draws the audience in. "Let's get to business. The Reaping. How did you feel when your sister was selected as the female tribute for this year's Hunger Games?"

Swallowing back irritation – knowing that it is his job to ask such nosy, invading, personal questions – I answer.

"I was… I think I was about to cry, actually," I said, my expression and voice changing to perhaps try to glean sympathy from the audience. It works; the collective _awwww_ resonates throughout the theater, and I turn to smile graciously at them. "My family and I are really very close. They're my best friends. I would do anything for them."

"Quite obviously," says Caesar, leaning back in his chair. "Now, I've heard from several private sources –" he faces the audience, winks and taps the side of his nose; "– that you and the male tribute, Peeta Mellark, are… quite close for competing tributes. How would you characterize your relationship with Peeta?"

"Peeta? Oh, well, he's great. Really nice. I was actually surprised to find that out. We get along great. Did you know that when we were on the train, I was really upset about leaving my family and my life with some _guy_ I assumed was probably gonna kill me first chance he got?" I say, and I speak as honestly as I can. The audience loves the honest people. "He came to my room because he heard me crying, and he came in and he hugged me and told me we were gonna be alright." The crowd _awwww_s quite enthusiastically now. "I don't know why he did, but I'm glad. He's a good friend. I'm just sad that –" I cut off there, but everyone knows what I would have said. _That we're gonna die tomorrow._

"Okay," Caesar diverts people from the morbid thoughts I had put in their minds with that last, half-finished sentence. "We've got room for one more question. What was the last thing your family said to you?"

I stop short at that one – that is much, much too personal for my liking. Lifting my eyes from my shoes, I look Caesar directly in the eye with at the seriousness I can muster.

"My family begged me to win. For them. For the District. And I told them I would," I turn to face the audience. "I told them I'd win for them."

The buzzer sounds right after that intense quote, and the audience erupts in cheers of my name. I paste on a plastic smile once more, thank Caesar for his time and give the audience a wave.

"Good day, Panem!"

The crowd screams my name as I take my leave; I can still hear it as the member of the backstage crew ushers me down a much wider hall into a much larger room, where there's a big TV and the tributes and mentors are all sitting around on couches, chatting casually. Haymitch and Effie stand up as I walk in; they crowd me in a hug.

"Oh, darling, that was w_onderful_! Absolutely spect_a_cular!" Effie says, drawing out the 'a' in spectacular as long as she can.

"You did good," was all Haymitch says. He sounds all choked up, and I can tell his gruffness is just his way of showing, as Effie does with her squealing, how proud of me he is.

And then Cato comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, Mr. Abernathy. Can I talk to Scarlette?" He is exceedingly well-mannered for the brute that he is. I nod in compliance as Haymitch looks to me warily. I can tell he doesn't trust Cato; to be honest, neither do I, but I'm pretty sure I know what's coming up next and it'll be of use to me in the Games.

He leads me away from Haymitch and Effie and towards the Careers, sitting on the most luxurious lounge at the back of the room. Clove, Marvel, Glimmer, District 4 boy. Not many, but I am nervous all the same.

They stop their talking and turn to me; they look me up and down, appraising me, as if I were an object. I see approving looks from Marvel and District 4 and surprisingly, Clove. I suspect the approving looks are for very different reasons; I am, after all, just an object to the boys. I can sense the distaste from Glimmer. Probably because there's now another blond to be in competition with.

"This is District 12; Scarlette," Cato speaks; there's a certain authority in his tone that makes me almost certain that he's the boss.

"Hi," I wave awkwardly. _Damn. It does NOT do to make a fool of yourself in front of the Careers, Scar!_

Glimmer smirks. _I do not like that girl._

"Good score. You wanna join the Careers?" Cato asks abruptly. _Great. Let's cut to the chase, then._

"What's in it for me? I mean, how do I know you won't just kill me in the bloodbath?" I say in a business-like tone, just like I practiced with Haymitch.

"Because when we invite newbies in, we don't go back on our word. As for you, you get protection, shelter, food from us until you're of no use to us anymore," This time Clove replies, that casual implication sending chills up my spine. "So, you in?"

"Fine," I reply, hating myself for going dark-side. But it was the only way to ensure I didn't die in the bloodbath. "Now, if you would excuse me."

I returned to Haymitch and Effie with a relieved smile on my face.

"It's done," I say to Haymitch, sitting down next to them to watch Peeta's interview. I turn my attention to the screen. Jeez, he's charming! He's making everyone laugh, telling funny jokes and throwing dazzling smiles… I sound like a lovesick puppy.

"… and the last question for tonight – sorry folks! Peeta, you're a handsome young man," Caesar says, jokingly nudging him on the shoulder.

"Why, thanks Caesar!" Peeta jokes, winking at the audience. A gaggle of girls in the audience squealed. _Grrrrrrr_….

"Yes, you're a handsome young man… Is there someone back home? A girl?"

Peeta's suddenly embarrassed. The tips of his ears have turned bright red and he's scratching the back of his neck in that way that he does when he's asked a question that makes him uncomfortable.

"Uh, no. Not really," he says.

"No! A guy like you? Come on, there's gotta be _someone_."

"Well, there is this one girl… But I don't think she likes me back. I don't even think she knew who I was until the Reaping."

_Katniss._ I'm certain. The crowd of girls squeal again, but more disappointed than anything.

"Oh, but if you win the Games, she's certain to go out on a date with you! Go home a hero, and you never know," Caesar encourages.

"I can't," Peeta says in a tight voice.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't… Because she came with me," Peeta says.

I feel my eyes bulge. Wha – what? He likes me? I feel elated. I mean, I was expecting him to like Katniss, because all the signs point that way, and –

But all the signs _do_ point that way. And this is the Games. It's easy enough to make things up to gain popularity, and now, because we can't ever be together, we'll be branded as 'star-crossed lovers'. And then I realize that that's what Peeta's doing. He lied on camera. And now, everyone is sympathetic. Shocked gasps fill the theater just as the buzzer sounds. Suddenly, I feel stupid. Stupid for ever thinking he could like someone like me when there's someone like Katniss out there. Hot tears burn my eyes and I have to look down to control it. I can't show my weakness.

Peeta says goodnight to the audience and makes his way backstage as Caesar finishes off the interviews. I see his blond head and his face grin at me and I force myself to look away. Maybe I am being irrational, but I can't help it.

"Are you okay?" Haymitch asks.

I _so_ want to punch Peeta in the face, but I'm not that kind of person. So I hide my feelings, force a smile on my face and say; "Nothing. Let's go."

* * *

I'm out in the living room, watching TV while everyone else is sleeping. Well, while Peeta is sleeping. Effie and Haymitch are out partying with the other mentors and I can't sleep. I ignored Peeta all the way here, had my dinner in my room and spent most of my time cranking up the music on the CD player in my room to drown out Peeta knocking at my door.

Some random drama show is on now, and even though it's cliché and stupid, I find myself yelling at the TV.

"Goddammit, Kathy, why'd you sleep with your sister's husband?" I throw a pillow at the screen with some redhead crying to her boyfriend. Irritated, I shut the TV off and sit by the open window across the room.

"Why've you been ignoring me today?"

I gasp and whirl around, my heart hammering. Peeta's there in the shadow of the couch. He doesn't look like I just woke him up. Suddenly, I'm nervous.

"I haven't," I say, my eyes darting around erratically, looking for an escape as he draws nearer.

"No, you're not doing this again. Enough with the hot-and-cold treatment! One minute you're happy and smiling and the next you're giving me the cold shoulder! I want to know what's going on!" He's started to yell, grabbing onto my hand as I move toward the kitchen. I slap his hand away.

"You want to know what's going on? Really? REALLY, PEETA? Oh, I'll tell you," I yell right back at him, all my frustrations pouring out of me in one big rant. "We don't talk to each other for SIX YEARS and then you suddenly go all buddy-buddy on me, just in time for me to be KILLED? You may think it's fun to mess with my mind, but it ISN'T FUNNY! AND THEN I BEGIN TO GET FEELINGS FOR YOU, STUPID FEELINGS! BUT YOU PROBABLY KNOW THAT, BECAUSE IT'S WHAT YOU DO. FOR SOME REASON YOU FIND IT FUNNY TO SCREW ME OVER! AND THEN, THE INTERVIEWS? OH, NICE TOUCH PEETA. TELLING THEM YOU'VE GOT THE HOTS FOR ME TO GET SPONSORS WAS VERY SMART. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT HURTS THE MOST?" I turn to face him after pacing. Suddenly the tears burn more than they did before and I can't stop them from falling. "REALLY? YOU LOVE KATNISS, NOT ME. AND I WISH MORE THAN ANYTHING THAT YOU LOVED ME THE WAY I LOVE YOU."

"IT WASN'T A GAME! How could you think that? And you're one to talk! You drive me crazy, with the way you get close, _so_ close, and then I do SOMETHING wrong, which you don't TELL me, and you ignore me, and we're back to square one. IT'S AN ENDLESS CYCLE AND I DON'T KNOW WHY I TRY! THE INTERVIEWS? ARE YOU SO GODDAMN INSECURE THAT YOU DON'T SEE YOURSELF HOW EVERYONE ELSE DOES? WHY WOULD I LOVE KATNISS WHEN YOU'RE THERE, _ALWAYS_ THERE! IS YOUR HEAD SHOVED SO FAR UP YOUR ASS TO SEE THAT I MIGHT ACTUALLY BE TELLING THE TRUTH?" He stops abruptly. "And you love me?"

I laugh bitterly, rolling my eyes. "Yeah, and I wish I could take it all –"

Suddenly, he's crossed the space between us and his mouth is on mine, his hands on me, hot and yearning, and I'm feeling things that were previously alien to me. I want to push him off me, but I don't. I _can't_. Because it feels so right, so wonderful, and I can't stop it. He has me backed up to the wall, and I wrap my arms around his neck and play with the hair on his nape as he moves his hands lower. I can't stop myself from moaning like a cheap whore into his mouth. I shift from the wall because I don't like feeling boxed in; we knock over a lamp on the table beside us.

Peeta kisses up my jaw and stops at my ear. Tugging at the lobe, he whispers in my ear; "I love you."

"What?" I ask breathlessly. I shiver at the sensations running through me. He pulls away and looks into my eyes, blue on blue. His lips touch mine once again, but this time it's soft, needing, expressing everything he feels in the one kiss.

"I love you," he says in between kisses. He says it over and over and I feel elated and sorrowful at the same time, because I know it's the last night where we can be with each other and know that we will live through the night.

"I love you. So much," I whisper brokenly; he must pick up on what I'm thinking, because he just stands there and holds me, murmuring comforting, but meaningless, words in my ear. We'll die soon, and we both know it.

I look up at him.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," I say. "Please stay with me."

He groans. "I don't think I can control myself."

It's the last time we'll be together.

"Then don't," I state boldly, my eyes blazing. He stands stock still, as if movement of a single muscle will cause him to lose control. I look at his face pleadingly; I stroke his jaw; I do everything to coerce him to move, but he doesn't. My mouth trails up his neck to his ear as he had done so similarly just a few minutes ago. "Please," I whisper in his ear. "Please. I want you. I want _us_."

He groans and turns his head so he can capture my lips with his in a passionate embrace. Morally I know it is wrong; I'm the sensible one. I would never indulge in pre-marital sex in normal situations. But it is our only night together. I need something to remember him by.

And with a final murmur of _I love you_, he picks me up effortlessly and carries me to the bedroom for our last night together.

* * *

**Is it okay?**

**I'll have the next chapter up soon. Please review. Thanks, guys, for reading up to here. It means SO much to me. :-)**


	8. Chapter 8

**So was that last chapter alright? I didn't really get any feedback on it. Hope you liked it.**

**Anyway, guys - I'm SO sorry that you had to wait so long for this chapter! I had assignments and crap coming out of the wazoo, not to mention I wasn't sure how to continue this story. Anyway, excuses, excuses. A little short, but I hope to have the next chapter rolled out soon. I hope you guys enjoy this one. To the newcomers, welcome and thank you for taking time out of your day to read the ramblings of a weirdo who is completely obsessed with the Hunger Games! And guys, please review, evenif it's only to say 'good' or 'bad' or to put a smiley or frowny face in. It helps me know what it is you guys like and what you don't so I can make reading this a little better for you.**

**Disclaimer: Yada, yada, yada. No, I don't own the Hunger Games. Do I look like Suzanne Collins to you? Really? :-)**

* * *

**Chapter Eight **

_And with a final murmur of I love you, he picks me up effortlessly and carries me to the bedroom for our last night together._

* * *

Flash. Streaks of light and dark crawl inside my head, spinning around and wordlessly taunting me. My memory surfaces in the dark in a situation akin to the life flashing before my eyes.

"_Mom! Mom, get up! DO something!" Katniss sits at Mommy's feet, shaking her pale frame, trying to draw her eyes away from the rotted wooden wall that holds the roof up over our heads. She stares at the wall vacantly; Katniss cries. Mommy does nothing. She sits there, like a porcelain doll, broken and cracked in places inside we can't see._

_I hold onto Prim like a lifeline; she is almost six years old. She doesn't understand why Daddy hasn't walked through the door with the shattered glass sticking out in angles, all black with dust and dirt from another day's hard work at his job. She doesn't know that he won't ever come back to us, to do what Katniss can't, save our Mommy. _

_Prim cries, but she's only scared because of all the yelling. She doesn't know._

_I do._

_I may have only just turned ten, but I understand. I know that Daddy's never going to come in and sing the Valley Song and tell me a story and kiss me goodnight. He won't drop us off at Gale's house so he and Mommy can have some 'alone time', whatever that means. Katniss and I won't ever get to go in the woods with him again, and play pretend and sing songs as loud as we can. Never. So I hand lightweight Prim to Katniss and sit on Mommy's lap and hug her the way I always do when she's feeling sick. Sadness is a kind of sick, isn't it?_

"_Mommy?"_

_Nothing. She just sits there staring at that damned wall. And I can tell that even as the three of us, her children, all stand here crying, she won't lift a finger to become our Mommy again. To gather us in her arms and sing us a lullaby like Daddy would and tell us we are going to be alright. To smile, even if it's only pretend, and try to live life one day at a time. _

_There, in the cold room with the dirt floor and jagged window panes, my childhood is stolen from me and replaced with one much older and wiser than a ten-year-old ought to be. And much like the porcelain doll does when it is aged by circumstance, I watch as my Mommy's heart breaks, the pieces crumbling to dust in a way that can never be repaired._

_Katniss pulls me away._

"Scarlette-"

"_Come on, Scar. Mom can't help us."_

"Scarlette!"

I jump awake. Cinna and my stylists are all here, looking at me with a strange sympathetic look in their eyes. That's when I realize I'm in Peeta's bed, wrapped in his sheets, his arm over my waist protectively. Our last night. I smile at the recollection. Then I get embarrassed, because I gather that Cinna has found me in here, undressed, and put two and two together. I still don't get the looks, though.

"Come on," he whispers softly. "We gotta get you ready. Portia will come in fifteen minutes to fetch Peeta." He turns to the stylists. "Wait out there. Remember; _you didn't see anything._ Got it?"

The three Capitol citizens leave the room with a terse nod at their boss, shooting me another one of those expressions.

That's when I remember. Today, I begin the Hunger Games.

Although the statement doesn't instill as much blind panic as it would have done several days ago, I'm still terrified. My safety is perhaps even more jeopardized by being in the Career pack, what with the majority of them having incredibly volatile personalities, but I can't stop worrying about Peeta. What will happen to him once I leave this room?

I decide there and then that as soon as I find Peeta in the Arena, I'll leave the Careers. Maybe I'll get rid of Cato first. I don't like him. He seems too dangerous.

"Give me a minute?" I ask Cinna pleadingly. He nods and leaves the room. I disentangle myself from the bedcovers and dress in the clothes I was wearing last night, my pajamas. I straighten out the sheets over Peeta's sleeping form and tidy up the room a little; we had knocked over a few of the more outlandish Capitol props placed around the room in our… activities… last night. Realizing there is nothing left to do to stall anymore, I take what may be my final glance at Peeta's face.

"Goodbye," I whisper, leaning over to press my lips against his forehead. He mumbles my name in his sleep. I smile. "You never know, we may yet see each other again. I love you. Don't ever forget that."

With that, I leave the room, weeping silently as I go.

* * *

I had left the room through the side door that enters into the bathroom that we shared while we stayed in the building. It has another door on the opposite end which leads into my bedroom, one I usually keep locked. Today, I'm praying I forgot to lock it after my bath last night. I try the handle. _Dammit_. No such luck. Wracking my brain, because I know I won't hear the end of it from Effie and Haymitch who are sure to be waiting outside my door to say goodbye, I try to think of a way not to get caught doing the 'walk of shame' from the male tribute's bedroom (or so Effie would say). Then I remember.

When I was little, Gale taught me how to pick locks. Everything from your standard rusty lock in District 12 that only ever kept wild dogs out to full-scale Capitol merchandise – with a toothpick. I know that since this is a bathroom there is pretty much no chance of me finding a toothpick in here, but a substitute can work. I fish around in the cabinet underneath the sink and find a bobby pin. Not the best, but it'll do. I bend it so it's straight. There. That ought to be good enough.

I push the end of the wire into the small mechanism just below the actual lock. Pushing it upwards, I murmur the instructions.

"A little to the left… a little to the right… up to the north… aha!"

The lock springs off the door, which is unexpected but not entirely surprising as I had only ever practiced on doorless locks, and therefore have had no way of knowing what would happen once I actually got one off. Luckily I catch the mechanism before it crashes onto the marble floor. I open the door and enter the room. I mess up the bed sheets a little so it looks as though I've slept on it and I brush my hair, which is looking similar to that of a bird's nest that has fallen out of a tree and onto the downy ground below. Once I look presentable, I leave the room.

Haymitch and Effie are sitting on the couch, not saying a word to each other and keeping their eyes to the ground. As soon as I shut the door, making a soft but audible click, they spring up. Effie rushes up to me.

"This is it, darling," she says, smoothing out my hair. Despite the lack of compassion, the gesture and words are oddly comforting. Desiring some form of civilized human contact, I quickly and tightly embrace the woman who, despite all her irritating ways, has been a good friend to me and has done the best she can to make the days before the Games as pleasant and fulfilling for me as possible. She seems surprised at first; it doesn't last long, as she soon embraces me just as tightly. "Okay. You have to go now. Good luck!" She chirps, and pushes me into Haymitch's direction.

The final moments with Haymitch are a lot harder to deal with emotionally than it was with Effie; I immediately burst into tears as he rocks me back and forth in a hug like a father would his child. And despite the lack of decorum, that really is what he has been for me. He pulls back and grasps my shoulders.

"Remember, you're in the Career pack, but make yourself scarce until the big fight is over. Pick a fight with the blonde one, I don't care how you do it, but get the bow and arrow and find a good-quality knife. ALWAYS keep an emergency rations supply on you, no matter what the Career kids say, got it? Food, water, chemicals, rope, salve, sleeping bag – ANYTHING and everything that may or may not be useful," he shoots off while I nod quickly. He pauses. "I think that's everything. Oh, and nice lock-picking by the way," he whispers. He chortles at my stricken expression. "Please, I know a walk of shame when I see one. Good on you. 'Bout time you realized you loved the boy. Don't worry, I won't tell Miss Uptight-Cranky-Pants over there," he says, tapping the side of his nose. I giggle, unable to stop myself.

Saying my final goodbyes, I cast one final glance over the apartment before the door is shut and I am ushered by Cinna into the unknown.

* * *

"There," Cinna says, tying the elaborate braid of hair at the bottom, securing it into place. Even though I see no point in such frivolity, I let him have his fun before he is forced to watch as I am sent to the slaughterhouse.

The jet ride over here was difficult. The females get one jet and the males fly over in a separate jet about fifteen minutes after the girls. During the five-minute ride, in which I discovered I'm terrified of flying, I sat mainly in silence apart from a few civilized words with Rue from District 11. The Capitol staff injected us all with a tracker, using this big fat needle that really hurt like a bitch when she stuck me.

Once I had gotten off, the stylists washed me down with this highly-concentrated body lotion designed to 'keep the moisture in and you feeling fresh!' throughout my time in the Arena. Apparently I shouldn't be in there too long, as the majority of Games only last about a fortnight; the longest was two-and-a-half weeks before the Gamemakers finally decided to pretty much hand a high-scale weapon to a tribute and watch as it fried the other remaining tribute's brains out. They scrubbed my scalp and oiled and prepped my hair and nails and pretty much every other body part I own. I was gifted a stick of balm for 'all intents and purposes' by Octavia to use in the Games.

Cinna puts something in my outstretched hand. The mockingjay pin.

"Thank you," I whisper as he fastens it onto my shirt. For once, I'm wearing normal clothes; a plain black shirt with a sports bra underneath and lightweight khaki cargo pants. He hands me a hooded jacket. "This'll keep the sun off in the heat and the cold out in the freezing," he says as I push my arms through the sleeves and zip it up. "Technically, tributes aren't allowed such nice clothing, but I bent the rules for you. My own creations. They'll help you in the Games."

"Thanks, Cinna. Really," I say earnestly.

"Thirty seconds to countdown," a generic female voice blares out of the speakers in the Launch Room. I begin to tremble.

"See you after," Cinna murmurs as he hugs me. He pushes me toward the tube. I stumble and lean against the glass cylinder, beginning to hyperventilate. Steeling myself, I drag my body onto the platform just in time for the chute to close and me to begin moving up. I shoot Cinna a look of alarm before he disappears from my sight.

I'm immediately hit with sensation; the sun is bright and the grass is green. Birds in the sky are chirping. It all looks so real. But I look up in the sky and squint until I find what I'm looking for; the telltale grid pattern against the sky that gives the illusion away. None of it is real. It's a shame; if I weren't here, in this situation, this would be a good place to live. A generic voice booms out from nowhere.

_39, 38, 37, 36, 35…_

I glance around at the Cornucopia. I spy my choice of weapons toward the mouth of the golden horn. Backpacks loiter further out. I set my eyes on a large but light-looking backpack only a few feet away from me. I look around at the tributes. Next to me are Glimmer – on my left – and Clove. Glimmer sneers at me; Clove smiles encouragingly, an expression that I find odd on her face. I smile back uncertainly. I throw my eyes around the Arena. I can't see Peeta; he must be on the opposite side of the Cornucopia, which is blocking my view.

_15, 14, 13, 12, 11…_

I wonder if Prim and Katniss and mom are watching this at home, or if they simply couldn't stomach watching it alone and went to the Hawthorne's place. I wonder if they're proud of me. I hope they know I love them.

_4, 3, 2, 1_.

The horn blares.

* * *

**Please review at the bottom of the page. Thanks for reading this far! :-)**


End file.
